


Beware the Were-Men

by F_S



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky has put his murder past behind him, Comedy, Dogs, Faeries - Freeform, Halloween, Halloween treat, Identity Porn, M/M, Magical Realism, Rocket as a raccoon AU, Steve is a middle class golden retriever, Thanos is Gamora's hamster, Undercover, enemies to crushes, its Thanos, living the dream, loosley inspired by catsvsdogs, shape-shifting, there is a murderer on the loose but its not Bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-08 18:43:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 32,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16434767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/F_S/pseuds/F_S
Summary: “You try’na say my dog turns into a man on the new moon?That’sthe most logical conclusion you have to why my foods going missing?”“Hey! If a dog got opposable thumbs, you better believe the fridge is the first place they're going.”“And the claw marks on the front door? And the missing clothes?”“Oh my god you're so bias. Just because you want so bad for it to be some ugly stupid ghost your not even stopping to believe-”“Roger is not a were-man.”“Were-men don’t know they are were-men,” Tony points out unhelpfully.Five days before Halloween at the Wilson’s household, Roger the (sort of) Golden Retriever is called back on duty.





	1. District of Colombia’s Most Haunted House

**Author's Note:**

> The aim is to update every day, with what happened every day leading up to Halloween. Real Time AU. Virtual Reality, if you will.
> 
> (Note: I've never been to the United States in my life and come from a culture that doesn't celebrate Halloween besides using it as an excuse to eat shit. This is my Halloween. Feel free to add tips.)

**District of Colombia’s Most Haunted House**

 

Why is my five-year-old house suddenly haunted?

This is a great question – a question one Sam Wilson, 11 Marvel Terrace, is currently asking himself.

Mr Wilson stares at his screen door, the one which opens onto his large but neglected backyard.

This is the second time tonight he’s noticed the door. It’s open by just a crack. Just a notch.

Spooked, but determined to not show it, Sam crosses his living room and clicks the door back shut. Then locks it. Then says out loud to himself he’s definitely _locked it this time._

Half-ish an hour-ish later, Sam gets up from the couch to grab a block of chocolate. The room is dark besides the TV screen. It’s softly playing a rapid Korean comedy that often breaks into impromptu dance numbers.

Peeling the fridge open like a magical flower, the ethereal light illuminates a… slightly open back door.

Sam braces his body against the comforting bulk of the fridge door and tries to think of all the very _reasonable reasons_ this is happening.

“Roger?” he calls out. Tinkling fills the air as his dog stirs from deeper inside the house, padding down the hallway towards Sam.

One by one Sam very quickly flicks all the lights on. He pulls a torch out of the miscellaneous junk draw.

Roger is now walking around the counter bemusedly, eyeing the torch like it could be a piece of food in disguise.

“You keep your eyes peeled buddy,” Sam tells him. “Or keep your ears peels, and I’ll keep my eyes peeled. Let’s play to our strengths.”

Sam pads over to the back door, takes a deep breathe, then switches the patio lights on. He half expects for some shadowy figure to be cast in the old-apple-flesh glow.

There is nothing. Just the leaf filled table and chairs, the dog bowls, and Sam’s rainy day running shoes.

Stepping onto the patio like he’s entering enemy territory, Sam flashes his torch out into the blackness of his yard. Roger goes over to his bowls to inspect them, casting a forlorn look at the empty food bowl, then lopes off into the grass.

Sam tracks the tinkering of his tags into the darkness of the yard.

The dog returns a few minutes later looking confused but happy to stretch his legs.

“Of course,” Sam rolls his eyes. As if Roger would be a help. The retriever would probably _befriend_ a hostile.

Probably would approach a ghost for a hug. Dumb dog. Why didn’t he get a scary dog? You know, something protective and serious? Instead he’s got a long-haired golden retriever which sheds like he’s aiming for a Guinness World Record. Sam sometimes feels like a white lady whose three bratty kids are off playing extra-curricular lacrosse.

The patio light has attracted a mosh-pit of assorted moths, and the first casualties are starting to brush against Sam’s face.

The well-built man makes a tactical retreat into the house after his dog. He closes and locks the door again… suspiciously.

With the click of the lock fixing into place, Sam Wilson swears a solemn vow.

If the door mysteriously opened one more time, he was getting his beautiful black ass out of this God Damned horror-movie opening scene bullshit.

The door does not open again.

What happens instead, is that he can’t find his block of chocolate in the fridge (did he already eat it?), the internet drops out three times (unusual), and when he goes to bed, he can’t shake the feeling something’s been re-arranged in his closet.

He let’s Roger sleep on the bed tonight, rather than outside. Curled around a pillow and staring out the window, Sam curses once again.

Shit, whatever. If someone comes in Roger will try his level best to smother them in hugs, giving Sam the time he needs to roll off the bed, shove aside the shoe box obscuring the safe, and retrieve the hand gun.

Not today Jesus, not today.

To be sure, Sam writes down a last message in his phone’s notes app.

_Back door re-opening when not looking today. Three times, 6pm when I came home from work, 8pm, and 9pm. No noise or sign of anyone. My estate and fortunes are to be equally split amongst my nieces and Roger._

_Signed,_

_Sam ‘the god-damned Falcon’ Wilson_

Without a witness to watch him sign the note, it won’t be authentic enough to stand up legally, but his sister will get a kick out of it.

With that, Sam proceeds to stare at the ceiling for three hours before drifting off to the sound of Roger licking his paws.

This is why the dog sleeps outside.

The alarm goes off when the sky outside is grainy with pre-dawn. Sam sits up and stretches, happy to be alive.

He breathes deep, smells what must be multiple dog farts, and decides to not do that again.

Sam changes into his running clothes, snatches his phone off the floor, and stumbles his way into the kitchen for a filling and nutritious breakfast. Rogers follows tight on his heels, knowing exactly what running clothes look like and what they mean.

The air is just chilly enough to snap him awake when Sam goes outside to scoop dry food into Roger’s bowl. The dog scoffs it down like he’s been living on ratios for years.

Roger stays out in the yard until it's time to run. From the kitchen Sam watches him trot off to sniff around the perimeter of the fence.

Fifteen minutes later they are sitting in the front yard, Sam doing his best to stretch his legs out, Roger doing his best to lick Sam’s face until his skin comes off.

“Stop,” Sam elbows the large dog away. Ten second later: “No.” he turns his shoulder into the dog to protect his precious face. “Stop,” an actual shove. Sam whines like a younger sibling whose finally had enough of wrestling, “gross, stop!”

Roger huffs and side-eyes him, abandoning his pursuit in hurrying Sam’s stretches along. For a minute Sam feel a rush of victory.

The sound of running feet rhythmically hitting the pavement of the road interrupts Sam’s glorious power high. Roger tugs on his leash, which is currently looped around one of Sam’s ankles.

Yeah, this sounds about right. Roger just switched interest from Sam to Rhodney. The man who lives two doors down is always such a push over when it comes to Roger.

“Good morning,” Rhodney happily greets the dog, jogging across the grass and crouching down to commit both hands to scratching Roger.

The dog immediately rolls onto his back, legs going up in the air like a prostitute. Sam darkly mutters under his breath as he finishes up his stretches.

“Don’t adopt the stray dog hiding under your car they said, he’ll be too feral they said.”

The two men and the dog set off down the street soon after, Rhodney leading with his headphones in, Sam behind, wrangling Roger like the sledge dog Roger spiritually is.

It’s like the dog thinks the only acceptable way to do five miles is at a flat sprint.

Sam used to take Roger on runs with a collar, but the dog willingly choked himself in some weird kinky desire to bodily haul Sam along. Harnesses were just enabling the sledge dog fantasy, and also put Sam’s shoulders at real risk of being dislocated.

Now Roger wears a haltie. A bright U.S.A flag printed one too, over his nose and behind his ears, because Sam feels like the bastard deserves it.

And it was the only reflective one left in the shelter’s small store.

Considering how dark their runs can get during winter, Sam wasn’t going to _not_ get a reflective head harness.

When they hit the park Sam unclips Roger from his leash while Rhodney takes a drink. They then set off down the more unused jogging tracks.

Roger gallops in front, stopping to sniff at smells, sprinting off like a racehorse, always making sure his owner is keeping his lazy ass up with the pace.

Rhodney is puffing and panting and complaining about the latest stupid thing at work when they come out of the trees, much slower than when they started. There was a ridiculous amount of hills.

Roger lays down on the grass as the men stand around with their hands on their hips gasping in air.

They make their way back home through the park proper, with Roger back on the leash.

Sam and Rhodney have now slowed to a walk, easier to talk and drink water that way, when Sam sees _it._

It’s the most beautiful sight he has ever seen. His hand goes weak around the water bottle. A groan slips past his lips. Every cell of his body burns. In envy.

Running towards him is a man, and at his side runs a large spaniel looking dog. It is keeping pace with him. Exact pace. Not pulling at the leash, not stopping to sniff at Every Blade Of Grass. Its eyes are level and its stride even. It stays exactly at its owner’s hip. The leash clipped to the man’s waist has a consistent amount of slack.

Sam goes weak at the knees.

“Oh my god teach me your ways,” Sam stops to simply admire the holy vision as it draws closer and closer up the wide concrete path.

Rhodney looks up in concern.

“Oh, I know him from work,” his eyes dart between the two dog owners.

“Hopefully he’s not the one you just spent twenty minutes complaining about,” Sam’s not sure if his mental state could handle that. All his life he’s been told dogs can tell if you’re a good person or not. In the end, it seems they only listen to assholes.

“Nah, he’s good,” Rhodney shrugs and raises his hand in greeting as the guy and his frankly mythical dog get drawn close.

The man scowls as he slows down and tugs his wireless headphones out. Extremely loud music fills the air briefly before he puts them in a pocket.

Sam just watches the dog. His jaw drops as it slows down as its owner does, drawing to a stop as he does, not once pulling on the leash. What dose it feel like, to own a floating cloud of perfection?

“Stevens, hey man. Didn’t know you lived close by,” Rhodney greets diplomatically, accepting a professional fist bump.

Sam’s arms strain with the effort to keep Roger behind his legs and away from the new dog, which is currently regarding the half hidden bulk of Sam’s golden retriever like one might a regard a cat showing up in the kitchen sink at midnight. When you don’t own a cat.

“Rhodes,” Stevens greets back, looking marginally more pleasant, not scowling anymore. “More of a gym person, but got this one,” he jabs a thumb at the dog which is sitting quietly and obediently beside him, “so you know, I run now too.”

Rhodney starts talking about some mutual pain in the ass which Sam can’t keep up with. As they talk, Steven’s eyes keep slipping down to the whining mess that has managed to just peek his head around Sam.

 “Hey, your dog good with other dogs?” Stevens asks bluntly, pointing to the pleading dog in question. Sam shrugs.

“Over enthusiastically friendly if anything, I’ve never had a problem with him, but he used to be a stray so I try to be careful,” Stevens just nods and hums before crouching down to watch his own dog.

“Good enough. This guy here is in the foster system. I’m trying to socialise him as much as possible you know. The more confident they are the more chance they get to re-home.”

There is a dull scream in Sam’s mind, rapidly getting louder. _Not an asshole. Oh my god not an asshole. A good guy. A good good guy who fosters dogs oh my god._

“You alright experimenting with me and seeing how he reacts to another dog?” Sam clears his throat and nods his head several times like an idiot.

“Yeah, for sure, for sure,” it would probably do Roger good to get bitten. Sam unwinds his hands from behind his back, and with it surges Roger. The retriever crawls like a turtle towards the new dog, dragging Sam along.

The other dog stands abruptly, takes two steps back, and then proceeds to do a great impression of a statue as Roger sniffs at their jaw.

“Hey, easy there Solider,” Stevens reassures his dog by putting a hand on Roger’s chest and softly dragging him a few steps back. His dog visibly relaxes, and Rogers also suddenly goes quiet and well-behaved.

 _I hate you._ Sam tries to mentally project his message to the devil turned angel sitting happily before what-ever-his-first-name-is ‘dog whisper’ Stevens.

They stay like that for a bit, the dogs looking at one another from a distance, just enough for them to still sniff at each other. Stevens only takes his hand off Roger’s chest when his foster dog finally relaxes and stretches his head forward in interest.

Roger promptly ruins it by getting immediately up in the other dog’s grill, but Stevens doesn’t make a move to intervene this time.

Roger sniffs and circles, as puffed up as he is bowing his back to look small.

Stevens's dog does not reciprocate. He tolerates, if anything, eyeing Roger like he’s some sort of wild animal.

It continues for a little bit until Roger gets bored of the stuffed-toy imitation show and turns his attention to Stevens.

“Okay, I can work with that. He isn’t aggressive but he’s scared,” Stevens scratches at Roger absentminded while watching his own dog’s body language.

“Well, hey, if you live close by it’s no hassle to drop Roger by for a day and let them get used to each other,” Sam offers, remembering how worried he was back when he first took Roger in, convinced he was going to scar this dog even more than the street could.

“Nah. Thanks but nah. I don’t want to compromise his safe space. Tell ya what, if you see me in the park again, never hesitate to come over. He might just need time to get used to meeting dogs out of the blue. It’ll help if it’s the same dog each time.”

_Such a good guy, worried about safe spaces and stuff._

“Oh yeah, for sure. I always take a morning run through here. Rhodney joins us ever second day.” Stevens raises an eyebrow at Rhodney, who just raises his hands.

“Hey, I’m technically not active duty anymore. I don’t need to be here at all.”

They share goodbyes and resume running in opposite directions soon after. Rhodney starts talking again only when he’s sure Stevens is out of earshot. Or eyeshot.

“Fresh out of Black Ops,” he conspiratorially whispers in Sam’s direction. Sam pulls a face that clear says ‘oh shit’. “His squad called him Killmonger, man.”

This time Sam dose say ‘oh shit’.

“Nice guy though,” Rhodney says briskly and happily, picking up the pace as they leave the park and hit the suburban streets. Sam nods along to his steps.

“Yeah, great guy,” he grins, thinking about all the fucking therapy Black Ops guys need when they’re finally pulled from the field. He wonders if the fostering dogs thing was something the therapist recommended.

It’s when they are entering the home-stretch of the run, and Sam starts thinking about the shower waiting for him at home, that he remembers.

“Hey Rhodes,” he calls to get the other man’s attention. Rhodney grunts to show he’s listening. They are running single file again to fit the side-walk. “I think my house is haunted.”

“I’ve got to see this,” is all Rhodney says on the subject  before he gets laughed at for about five minutes straight.

“I’ll come over tonight for dinner. We can watch that ghost hunting show on Netflix and you can compare notes,” Rhodney’s house is rapidly approaching and he starts to slow and peel off, entering his drive way like it’s the gates of heaven.

“Oh yeah, sounds great. We’ll order food from the Turkish place.”

Rhodney pauses while getting his key out of his zipped pocket.

“Local Turkish place, with the soups?”

“Of course,” Sam scoffs, only barely managing to stay put as Roger tries to haul him further down the street towards their own home.

“I love that place,”

“I know. You’ve mentioned it consistently every month since I’ve know you.”

Rhodney unlocks his door and nods in agreement.

“That’s because they do these monthly surprise specials and… whatever I’ll tell you about it later.” Rhodney disappears into his house with a wave goodbye that was probably aimed at the dog and not him.

Sam feels a little giddy. Did he just make a friend? Not a neighbourly jogging friend but a hang-out friend?

The only time Rhodney has been to Sam’s was the day after Christmas. The day Sam found a dog hiding under his car - still warm from the drive back from his mom’s – and was promptly freaking out because Sam doesn’t know what to do with dogs but he knew Rhodney had like, four when he was a kid.

When he gets to his own home, Sam is greeted by the sight of a cat. It’s curled on top of the tall wooden fence between his and Clint’s place. Sam has never seen it before. They aren’t a cat street.

It’s black with eyes that glow pretty much straight up red. It glares at him and Roger as they pass and go into the backyard. Roger only spares it three seconds of his day with a single bark.

It hisses back.

His house is so haunted.

Sam makes it home from work fifteen minutes past 6.p.m.

Roger has spent the day outside in the yard, and is spread out on the patio under a deck chair when Sam goes out to check on him.

He lifts his head to regard Sam, but doesn’t make a move to get up. Sam has to hold the door open and call his name multiple times before the lazy shit walks his way inside.

By the time Sam has packed all his work stuff away in the laughable office he keeps in the spare room, Roger is asleep at the foot of the armchair he prefers. The one draped in towels to protect it from the dog hair and dirt. The one chair Roger is allowed on.

Rhodney must have seen his car in the drive way, because he comes through the door after only a single knock, menu of the Turkish place carried in one hand like they’re about to cram for an exam. On Turkish food.

Roger lifts his head as the other man enters the room, wags his tail three times, and then curls back up.

Sam grabs two beers from the fridge and starts reading the menu, trying to see what Rhodney sees in this place, draining out the other man’s chatter on _blah blah blah_ Congress man _blah blah_ standing around scratching my ass  _blan blah_ I left Afghanistan for this?

“Three years of clown college for this?” Sam mocks, quoting a movie he’s long forgotten.

“Clown college would have prepared me more for guarding politicians all day - more than the Army ever did.”

“Stark’s not a politician,” Sam points out, slightly worried the conversation is getting too dark for a fun night that’s meant to be about his haunted house.

“No, just a rich shit constantly meeting members in exclusive restaurants trying to get certain laws passed. I swear if I hadn’t know him so long I would think the guy was a cliché super villain.” Sam pretends to consider this.

“If he’s the villain then you’re the super hero.”

Rhodney pinches the bridge of his nose and signs into the fruit bowl Sam keeps on the counter to put his keys and roaming rubber bands in.

“Anyway so what’s this haunted theory you’ve got? I’d like to sort it out before it drives house prices on the street down.”

Sam point to the door in question.

“That door opened itself at least three time last night. Two of those times I know for sure it was locked. Fully locked.”

Rhodney goes over and inspects the latch and frame, looking for some obviously broken mechanism which would prove this all stupid.

“And,” Sam continues, “my internet dropped out three times.” Rhodney latches the door and tries yanking it open. The lock does not give.

“Did the drop outs correspond with the door opening?”

Sam felt genuinely touched Rhodney was suspending disbelief for him.

The three times had been after the Korean comedy show, but before he got curious and brought up the live stream of KBS1 to watch the news. He tells Rhodney as much, and gets a suss look.

“You enjoyed your deployment over there way too much.” Sam shrugs it off.

“It was fun, people were too scared to bumped me on the trains. It was the height of luxury,” Sam suddenly remembers an important detail. “There was a black cat sitting on the fence when I came home from the run this morning.” Rhodney’s brows shoot up.

“Wow, a cat?” The sarcasm almost drips out his mouth. Sam nervously watches Roger.

“And Roger is acting weird.” Rhodney looks completely serious as he turns to the dog.

“How weird?”

Sam goes to the door and steps outside. He shacks the food bag filled with kibble, something Roger would usually run through a glass door to get at.

Roger doesn’t get up. Sam calls him, and only then dose he stir, walking over at an even pace and sitting at Sam’s feet like a _robot._

“I bet if I took him for a walk right now, he wouldn’t pull on the leash.” Sam’s heart sinks at that realisation. His dog has been replaced by a robot. Or maybe a clone? What sort of tech do ghosts have these days?

“He’s sick,” Rhodney announces with 100% belief in his diagnoses. “Sick tummy, or tired from chasing the new cat, or sore paws. Our dog got slow and stopped jumping up on stuff – you know why? She got arthritis. It hurt her to move around. Maybe it was just a bit too cold this morning and he’s feeling tender. The vets never did give you an age, did they?”

Sam shakes his head and pours the kibble into the bowl, which sits there uneaten.

“Seven, eight, they guessed. But he acts so young,” Roger finally starts eating in well mannered mouthfuls. Sam slips in a pig ear from the treat box. Roger usually goes nuts for those. He usually grabs it as fast as he can and takes off into the yard to hide it or bury it or frolic around in the flowers, whatever he gets up to with his pig ears.

Roger eats it happily over his bowl.

“They say being neutered creates an indefinite childhood for pets,” Sam laughs at Rhodney’s pearl of wisdom.

“Have you not noticed, that my dog still got his balls man?” They both turn to stare at Rogers junk as if to check, but its well hidden under all the long hair. God it’s like living with a polar bear sometimes the _hair._ “They are under there. Somewhere.”

“No I didn’t know that,” for some reason this is the evidence that stumps Rhodney. This is what he struggles to believe.

“Why you keep him intact?” Rhodney frowns.

“Felt a bit cruel to do that so late in life, to a dog like him, you know,” Sam rubs at his face and sighs.

Rhodney looks at him like he’s an idiot and goes back inside.

“Your projecting too much.”

Maybe. Sam follows Rhodney back inside. He closes the door. Locks it. He watches as Roger stops eating once Sam leaves and settles down back under the patio chair to sleep.

There is still food in the bowl.

“He ain’t sick. That straight up ain’t my dog.”

On the outside he is joking. Being funny for Rhodney. On the inside something cold and hard has settled in his gut.

“If he’s still acting weird in the morning take him to the vet, could be serious,” Rhodney advises from where he’s acquainting himself to the many remotes on Sam’s coffee table.

_That ain’t my dog._

 

- 

**The Day Before**

Sam, his human friend, has left for work. This means Roger is alone in the backyard. He’s sleeping in a sunbeam on the lawn, hound form still relaxed and happy after the exertion of the morning run.

Roger sleeps a lot these days, now that he has the time. He went four years on forty hours sleep before coming down here and taking revival leave on the human realm.

When he said ‘I’m not resting until Hydra is burned to the ground’ he meant it. Proved it. It took years to burn everything out of existence… to accept _he_ really was dead and gone.

So his revival leave is well-earned. Running across the fey realm dismantling Hydra wasn’t exactly a walk in the park. Now it was time for some _actual_ walks in the park, thank you very much.

It has been just over one gloriously peaceful year into his revival leave when Natasha shows up.

Considering he still has nine years left of his leave to enjoy, Roger isn’t exactly thrilled to see her. He’s got a good thing going here. He gets runs in the mornings, left alone most of the day, and more treats than strictly healthy for a normal dog.

“Stiv,” Natasha grunts his proper name, poking his shoulder with one steel-capped slipper. Roger rolls over and groans in despair when he sees her, in her spirit form, the sunlight streaming through her body and fracturing into a rainbow.

Bloody faeries.

Natasha is going to screw it all up. She can’t be subtle for the life of her. Hasn’t bothered updating her human realm knowledge in centuries. She still thinks they live in huts and worship her.

Actually, this might be fun.

“What the,” he rolls over and gets to four paws, “hell are you,” he shakes his wild golden coat free of grass, “doing here?”

“The way-point you repaired? It was destroyed last night. The infinity stone inside it is missing,” she says in a bored mono-tone.

Yes of course, outright disaster. How could he forget? Anything less and Natasha wouldn’t get out of her giant camomile bed. 

“And?” He asks, just to see if he can get away with rolling over and saying ‘that sounds like a _you_ problem’.

Natasha doesn’t bite. She never goes.

“And… you are the creature who requested and installed the way-point in the first place, making you the Prime Suspect. You are the most powerful creature who resides in this neighbourhood, again making you the Prime Suspect. And because I’m your Holy Guardian I am bound by the chains of Justice to represent you in the Fey Court of Evil Doings – which will eat you alive if you don’t get off your ass and help me figure out who _did_ steal the infinity stone.”

Eat him alive his lazy ass. There were only three judges who worked the Fey Court of Evil Doings, all elven, all old, and all claiming to be the only fey to have known Jesus Christ personally but in the good old days of Palestine.

They took about just as long to come to a decision on a court case. Maybe that’s how they punished you. Eternal waiting.

“Alright, fine, my esteemed _Holy Guardian_ , do the honours,” he stands up and tilts his head back, ears flopping against his neck. Technically it’s _Holy Master_ , but Natasha was always an unconventional Fey Lord when it came to her servants.

Her ghostly hand closes around his neck. His body sizzles and hurts with the rush of her power flowing back into him. Suddenly he doesn’t feel like just a dog anymore.

Roger feels his other forms sliding back into existence, coming back into his reach. The human form, small but unassuming, the warrior form, limitless strength and charm, and the beast form, large and savage. They float like ghosts around him. Roger picks at the edges of his human form and steps into it like a shirt he hasn’t tried on since last winter.

It has been just over a year.

The human form materialises where the hound form once was, wearing the same clothes and wounds he had when he last used this body.

On his hands are gloves warm enough to suddenly feel hot. His arms are covered in thick red cloth. Silver coins of light armour weave in and out of the wool.

Oh that’s right. War. Alps. Cold.

Roger wants to get out of it. Wants to escape from the sting of wounds he remembers getting a year ago, yet are here again on his body as fresh as ever.

This is why he took revival leave. So he didn’t have to deal with all this shit. Didn’t have to sit down on bed-rest and heal each form in turn. At least his human form just has cuts, bruises, and blisters on his feet from marching.

The warrior form probably needs urgent medical attention should he use it, hypothermia, oxygen deprivation, Roger vaguely remembers he had been drowning when he switched into his beast form to burst through the ice. Water in the lungs, probably.

The beast form has several broken bones.

“I’m gonna change,” Roger announces to what appears to be thin air – at least to a normal human. His mind goes to the boxes of old clothes Sam keeps in his wardrobe. They might be a bit big, but they’ll be modern and normal enough.

“Wait,” Natasha grabs at his arm, yanking the sleeve up to inspect the skin. Sure enough there is an angry knife wound. “You didn’t let your forms heal at all before taking leave? You know that weakens you, Stiv.” Roger scowls and yanks his hand away, peeling off the gloves as he goes to the back-door.

He goes to open it and remembers modern human locks.

“Natasha, welcome to my house, please come in, yada yada yadda, open it please,” she proceeds to make silently floating through a door look judgmental.

The door’s moving mechanisms jolt from having an invisible figure of power phase through, causing the lock to pop open. Roger angrily pulls it aside and steps through.

Natasha wearily regards the fridge and toaster while he barges off into Sam’s room. He throws a few piles of clothes aside to get at the box he knows is filled with old stuff. Roger pries the folded cardboard lid away and starts dressing in the first things he grabs.

Grey cotton pants. Slacks, his updated human knowledge adds helpfully. Dark green shirt with hideous print, and a black sweater over that. He keeps the undergarment, socks, and boots his human form was wearing in the Alps on.

He practically swims in Sam’s clothes, but whatever. On his way into the bathroom Roger grabs a belt he knows Sam has completely forgotten he owns.

Roger steps before the mirror and – jumps a bit in fright actually. After so long with just Sam and Rhodney, the fairness of his human skin and hair looks almost ghostly.

The updated human knowledge at the back of his brain tells him the clothes are more than passable, so he swiftly leaves.

When he comes back into the main area Natasha has her head stuck inside the fridge, breathing in the cold air and trying to snap apart a half-finished block of chocolate.

“Don’t touch anything,” Roger orders in panic, just as she bites into the chocolate. He sighs. “Why would you do that? You’re in your spirit form.”

Natasha grunts in acknowledgment of a good point and promptly takes her second favourite form. Roger darts across the kitchen and snatches the chocolate away.

“Definitely don’t eat it as a _cat_ , come on Natasah,” Roger has to say that out loud, ability to mentally hold a conversation gone now that Natasha is no longer a spirit.

She hisses at him, then says, voice high-pitched and runny with her feline vocal cords, “what is it?”

“Chocolate.” Roger looks down at the half-block and notices Natasha’s spirit left faint fang marks. Argh, whatever, Sam has like, five of these things in the cupboard. “It’s best eaten as a human, so chop-chop Nat the Cat lets go and track now some weirdos.”

Natasha despises being in human form, but the promise of inspecting the new food had her transforming anyway. Her human shape is short but sturdy, with red hair braided up and pale skin.

A rough worn cream dress cloaks her body, and brown sandals decorate her feet. They were probably handcraft by someone 900 years ago. A museum out there would kill for them.

His updated human knowledge tells him she looks weird but not outrageous. Good enough.

“Compared to you my power is limitless. I could kill you in a heartbeat,” Natasha crosses her human arms and tries her best to look down her nose at someone who is taller than her (slightly).

Roger pauses, one hand on the back door as he holds it open.

“Could you?” He smirks.

Natasha gives him an unreadable expression before smirking back.

“It’s good to see you again,” it’s probably the most emotional she’s gotten in half a century. “What stupid name do you go by now? You like to change them so much.”

“I’m called Roger, but that’s just as the hound. I’m thinking of using Steve again for this form, you know, back to basics.”

Natasha scoffs and follows him out into the yard, flicking her hand and creating a spectral dummy of Steve’s hound form.

“I shall teleport us,” she goes to reach for him but Steve pulls back.

“No, we’re going to catch a bus. I’ve been dying to do it since I found out about them. They don’t let lone dogs on board.” Stupid human society.

They don’t let people without money on board either, Steve finds out. Natasha has the smuggest look on her face as they end up teleporting from behind the bus stop.

Right, cause the one who thought the bus was a ‘giant soulless snake golem transporting the corpses of its victims’ had room to be smug.

They alight directly before the way-point and Steve immediately sees the problem.

A scorch mark in the shape of an arch has been burnt into the brick. When Steve touches his hand to the wall, it dose not shimmer with magic and activate. It is gone. Burnt away in a brief but intense fire.

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

They emerge from behind the roadside McDonald’s, trying to track the smell of burnt magic. The trial takes them behind a gym, through a park no one would dare bring their kids to, and under the highway in one of those murder-y pedestrian tunnels.

“Now what?”

Steve leans up against the blast concrete and tries to tug on all his human knowledge. What would the detective in Sam’s cop show do now?

“I’ve got an idea.”

The neighbourhood Steve is spending his revival leave in isn’t exactly rich in fellow fey. As a general rule, the more humans the less fey. But more mortal creatures – vampires, witches, clairvoyants – things that remember being human and desire the embrace of society, are here.

Mortal creatures that know how to steal security camera footage better than a Fey Lord and her Hell-Hound. Steve’s not even sure where he and Natasha would have _begun._

“I’ve got a name of a shop close by, you reckon you can teleport us there? Bulk Books.” Natasha takes a moment to feel through the magic after the name.

“Of course. They’ve got a portal conductor, I feel it. Should be no problem.” She takes a hold of his arm again, right over the knife wound.

“Well, we’re about to find out.”

They flash into a chalk circle hidden under a rug. Steve has been to Bulk Books many times – almost weekly since he came down from the higher realms – but he doesn’t recognise the shelves around him or the heavy brick walls.

There is heavy, hurried footsteps as someone comes down steps and hustles through bins of mail parcels to them.

“Yep, ah, hello – welcome to Bulk Books how may I help you?” Bruce appears, weaving around a stack of magical manuscripts.

Steve peels Natasha’s hand off his shirt and goes towards him.

“Bruce, hey. Say if I wanted to steal some security camera footage, who would be the best person to go to for help?” Banner adjust his glasses and twitches his eyebrows up.

“I… ah,” he looks around the high and closely packed shelves, “I run a book shop?”

Steve is taken aback. Yeah, Bruce runs a bookshop… as a front for an inter-realm postal service, one of only two in Washington.

The other one was run out of a tree on the grounds of the White House by an imp named Truimp. It was very exclusive. No one under a thousand years old was allowed.

One of the reasons he chose Sam was because he lived so close to Bulk Books. Steve runs the short distance to the post office/store/cafe every Monday to read the Shabbath Weekly, driven by some dull hope Hydra would rear its ugly head again.

Steve blinks a few more times, staring down at Bruce as he looks up at him, and realises he’s an idiot.

“Oh! It’s me, Roger the dog, who comes in for Monday lunch?” Bruce visibly relaxes.

“Roger? It’s good to see you again. I’m sorry I’m just, a bit on edge, you know, since the whole way-point destruction last night. Lost a few shipments.”

Steve is surprised. He had only installed the point four months ago. He didn’t realise locals like Banner were already using it regularly.

“You were using it?”

Bruce shovels around a few piles of paper printed with a language which honestly needs to take a second look at their alphabet.

“The old one was useless in that child care centre. Higher ups wouldn’t come down and install it in a better location. No one powerful enough used the neighbourhood to warrant the resource, you know? Besides there is a history of way-point tampering in Washington and they are trying to keep the Ways to a minimum.”

Interesting. Steve did not know about the history. Natasha gives him a look which says ‘stop being a child’ when he turns around to pointedly glare at her.

How could it be him when he’s only been here a year? Case closed.

“Yeah,” Steve agrees simply. He holds a hand out for Natasha and drags her closer to the constantly bed rumbled looking werewolf.

“Doctor Banner, this is Ната́ша Рома́новы,” the name slips out easily. He’s probably said it more times than his own. Well, any of his multiple names combined. “She’s the Fey Lord assigned to detect who tampered with the way-point.”

Bruce gives a short adopted wave and clutches awkwardly at the ledger he’s holding.

“A pleasure, you highness,” he stumbles out, as if someone just told him he was in the presence of a God. Maybe for these mortal creatures making their magical lives in human society, it almost is.

“A pleasure to meet your acquaintance and patronage your shop, merchant.” Natasha greets back hauntingly. She’s milking this situation, Steve realises with both horror and amusement.

“Yes,” Bruce agrees for lack of nothing better to do. “So ah, what was the question again?”

“I need to steal some security camera footage. Do you know anyone who could help?” Steve folds his arms and rests a fist against his lips, watching Bruce seriously.

“I do, I do,” Bruce confirms. “The Ant-Guy, this is his sort of thing. Stealing and tech.” He turns his back on them and wades up to a desk buried under folders and binders. Bruce paws at one in particular, then abandons it for another, ripping through its plastic pages.

 Steve takes the time to look around. They are obviously under the shop, in the incriminating part of the store. Steve’s never been down here before.  Usually he visits via the large back doors, entering what normal people assume is just a cramped staff room, and it is, but there is another door inside the staff room which should open into a closet.

It dose not.

The store is actually a normal town house. As normal as it can be, smothered between a condemned building and self-storage yard. It backs onto a neglected lot probably meant to be a petrol station, but whoever bought it forgot they owned it.

Bruce has filled the vacant space with wild flowers and veraciously growing trees. He’s got tables and chairs out there too, with cute umbrellas and potted cactus. The humans who visit for the books think it’s an undiscovered gem.

Bruce pulls a small card out from the binder and passes it to Steve. There is a name on it (S. Lang), a string of numbers (map coordinates?) a crudely drawn ant, and actual map coordinates. Steve flips the card over and inspects the other side.

 _The Ant-Man,_ it reads, _can fit anywhere and get anything._

“That’s a very broad brief of services.”

Bruce laughs it off and starts copying the information over onto a blank card.

“Good enough guy. Don’t tell him I sent you.”

The teleportation coordinates deposit them in a short hallway. There are two ratty armchairs pushed to the side, and across from them a thin table with a button on top.

A laminated sign is glu-tacked to the wall.

_Waiting area for Ant-Man_

_Press button for attention_

_Then be patient and wait._

Steve presses the button and folds himself into the cleaner looking chair, content to sort through the pile of books on hand. Natasha paces.

After five minutes she starts yanking doors. The doors open, but they reveal steel walls directly behind their frames. Steve snorts at her outraged expression.

Steve shuffles through the books. They are all about insects.

Steve picks a thin looking one called _The Hungry Caterpillar_ and settles back into the chair.

It is… an interesting poetry novella.

Natasha grows bored and itchy in her human form, so switches back to a cat. She instantly curls up and takes a nap.

Three books later the looping ambient music is disturbed by a car engine pulling up and cutting off.

There is a door slam, and footsteps, then a very loud noise. A rolling garage door is being pulled up.

The door down the end of the short hallway opens onto sunlight and a man.

He is in a Baskin Robbins uniform.

“You called?” He smiles at Steve, who has a scientific study on bees open across his lap. The sickening smell of _too_ much sugar clings to the man’s clothes.

“I need some security camera footage stolen,” Steve tells him matter-of-factly, closing the study up and getting to his feet. The man, Lang probably, swings a ring of keys around a fingers and nods.

“Run of the mill. I can do it. What we talking? Which camera caught your bad side?” He chuckles and gestures for them to come out of the hallway.

Stepping outside, Steve’s suspicions are confirmed. They are in the self-storage yard beside Bulk Books. They had been waiting inside a nicely furnished storage shed.

Natasha prowls around his heels looking none too impressed.

“That your cat?” The sugar man asks.

“Technically no,” Steve holds his hand out. “I’m Steve. I’m trying to find someone.” The man accepts the hand shake.

“Scott Lang. I suppose I’m here to help?” He turns back and points to his half wrecked car. “Step into my office sir, and cat.”

Steve explains he’s following up on the neighbourhood’s way-point’s destruction and wants to assess camera footage from the McDonalds, the gym, and anything in the area of the park and highway.

Scott takes it pretty well. Interestingly, he doesn’t take them to the McDonalds, the gym, or any of those places. He takes them to what Steve can only assume is his garage. It’s filled with tiny lights and plastics covering circuit broads.

And dirty dishes.

“Okay, draw up a seat, let’s get this done.”  Scott shakes awake his computer and starts tapping away and opening programs. Or closing programs?

Steve watches as he clicks about, types in a username and password, then sets about in the search bar narrowing down the location Steve provided.

“I’ve hacked in so many times they just gave me my own account,” Scott explains, scrolling through a list of hosts. Customers? Clients?

_McDonaldsFranchise-3501BranchAve_

Scott clicks on the name, opening up a bunch of timestamped videos.

“So do you know what time we’re looking for here?”

Natasha sits up from the unused keyboard she was sprawled across.

“One A.M. local time, last night.” Scott nods to the cat and starts scrolling through the time stamps. He copies both the midnight, one, and two o’clock footage into a secondary location.

They do the same for the gym, and then the one government cameras that overlooks the park. Scott even has access to the speed camera which records the highway.

Scott also includes footage off three other cameras in the vicinity. Once done, he collapses the program and pulls a small item from his computer. He gives it to Steve.

An SD card, Steve recognises once he sees its shape in his hand. These things… hold information… he thinks.

“Now you tell me, how much do you think that information is worth?” Steve actually laughs at that, which makes Scott’s shoulders relax.

“I wouldn’t know where to start,” he truthfully admits. Natasha growls over his shoulder. “What do you want for it?”

“American dollars, preferably.” Steve gives him an apologetic look Scott’s probably been on the receiving end of a million times by now.

“Yeah alright you useless magic bums. This is why I still need the dessert job.” Scott gets up and pulls out a magic absorber account. “I gotta be my own sugar daddy. This economy is in ruins!”

Scott’s magic absorber appears like a lava-lamp, which is different. Most look like hour-glasses.

Steve waves him over to Natasha.

“She’s paying.”

Natasha and Scott have a brief fight over how much magic the job was worth, then she puts a paw on the glass and it extracts the agreed portion.

“Alright, thanks for the business I suppose,” Scott says. Steve sits stupidly holding onto the SD card.

“How do I watch the footage on this?” He asks. Scott freezes and closes his eyes, turning his face to the ceiling.

“Oh my god Off-Worlders,” he groans to no one in particular.

Steve continues to sit, not knowing what to do with his hands.

Scott pitches over to a more normal looking computer on the other side of the garage. Shoving aside many wrappers and noodle cartons, he powers it up and wipes the screen clean with his sleeve.

“Okay, you can use this as long as you like, but it’ll cost ya a pinch of magic an hour.”

“Thankyou.”

Scott helps them through the process of inserting the SD card, opening the files up, and through the commands to control the video footage. 5x speed is very convenient.

There are the usually workers accessing the dumpsters and having a smoke. A pair of guys – one throwing up and the other trying to help him – and nothing else.

Nothing but one man.

Natasha stiffens the moment she sees him, prowling lithe and confident into frame.

His right hand flashes silver with metal. The skin around his face is darkened.

“It’s him,” Natasha whispers, drawing even closer to the screen. “He’s a  _myth_.”

Something about the way she hisses it tells Steve’s she is _livid_ it was a McDonald’s security camera which finally caught the myth out.

They slow down the footage and watch as the myth leans against the brick wall of a McDonald’s in Washington D.C.

He crouches down beside a dumpster for about fifteen minutes, gets pestered by a racoon that's was inside the dumpster, and then tries to stomp on a rat which runs out from under the bins.

The myth then leaves.

“What the hell is the Winter Stray doing here?” Natasha puzzles.

Why is it doing, slinking around behind buildings beside a highway in the _United States of America?_

Steve rolls the footage back and watches the Stray stalk away towards the road a second time.

The name is familiar. He’s seen it in records liberated from the labs.

Hydra’s assassin.

Looks like Steve was right. He didn’t get everything.

The mouse squeaks under his hand, pitiful and cracking.

The rest of the day is tiring after the revelation. None of the other cameras caught anything.

Coming home is an exercise in guilt. Steve waits, still in human form, in his backyard. The bushes are starting to irritate his human skin.

It feels so wrong to be here as a human, with Sam so close. It feels like his skin doesn’t fit.

Natasha goes into the house first as an invisible spirit, getting eyes on Sam. Steve’s human friend is reading off his phone while he stands by the stove, waiting for meat to brown in a pan.

The Roger-dummy is stretch out on the floor before the muted TV. Natasha softly commands the dummy to get up and make a fuss in another room.

Dummy-Roger looks almost painfully mechanical as it follows the instructions. It walks into the bathroom and methodically starts pushing bottles off the bathtub rim. It works a charm.

As soon as Sam leaves the living room, it’s all stations go. Natasha floats through the back door, popping it open again, and Steve scurries through, careful not to slam it shut. Careful not to make a single noise.

His heart races as he silently disappears down the hall and into Sam’s wardrobe.

Natasha stands guard while Steve strips the clothes off and returns them into the box. He retrieves his bodies original clothes from the bottom of the box and throws them on, likely inside out.

The armour woven into it is loud and clunky to get on. Steve barely resists the urge to rip it apart with his bare hands.

Sam’s clothes get neatly folded and closed back into the box. Into the depths of the wardrobe it goes again, curtsey of Steve’s foot.

The last thing Steve does with his human hands is tilt the heavy box of clothes and slip the precious SD card underneath.

Steve then becomes Roger, sighing into the more familiar skin and rolling his shoulders. His weight distributes evenly over his four paws, grounding him in a way his human form doesn’t anymore.

Sam is back in the lounge room and is talking to Dummy-Roger, not letting him out of his sight. It takes ages for Sam to turn his attention back to his dinner.

Dummy-Roger walks into the bedroom, blank eyed and impassive. Natasha dispels the golem immediately, aware of how much it unnerves Steve to see imitations of himself.

They hang around a bit more in the wardrobe talking about their plans. Today has been big. Big even before they found evidence of the Winter Stray. Natasha says she has to run this up the chain of command and wait for instruction.

“Just stay and wait it out,” she says before tossing her floating body around. “Maintain your cover with the human Sam. Be careful not to give anything away. The Stray could already be watching.”

Natasha travels down the hall and out the door once more.

She has to go beyond the property line to teleport now. Steve activated his dormant security wards the second they got back.

Dogs don’t sweat, so instead Roger’s body starts panting anxiously.

Steve just wants to find him. Preferably now, before he disappears and becomes a myth once more.

Fuck the way-point, fuck the infinity stone. The Stray is obviously linked – he showed up on the footage just minutes after the estimated destruction time.

What is Hydra doing on the human realm? That’s the real mystery. Steve’s gut rolls at all the possibilities. Were they hiding out down here all along while Steve burned the higher-realms apart looking for them? God, he feels so stupid.

Honest emotional exhaustion settles into Steve’s body. He misses his twenty-hours-of-sleep-per-day lifestyle.

Sam’s voice breaks Steve out of a nap he didn’t realise he was slipping into.

“Roger?” It’s coming from the kitchen and sounds edged with worry.

When Steve enters the kitchen, Sam the human friend is hunting around in a draw. It’s the one he keeps batteries and receipts in. The void draw, Steve likes to call it.

Sam never gets back what he puts into it.

A miracle occurs before both their eyes, as Sam successfully retrieves a stick Steve’s never seen before.

“You keep your eyes peeled buddy,” Sam tells him. “Or keep your ears peels, and I’ll keep my eyes peeled. Let’s play to our strengths.”

For what? Did Sam notice something? Did Sam hear something?

Is the Winter Stray here?

Steve hugs close to Sam’s legs, immediately on the defensive. Sam goes over to the back door and Steve follows, trying to keep himself between Sam and the door.

The light flicks on outside. Steve jumps. Sam moved too slowly and too softly for Steve to notice he was going for the light switch.

Sam pulls the door open. As soon as the gap is big enough Steve forces his way through, determined to encounter the wrath of the assassin first.

 _Do it, do it, come on, I dare you._ Steve is calling in his mind, suddenly no longer tired. Now he’s angry. Scared for Sam and angry someone would dare threaten him.

It’s bad manners. Everyone knows not to compromise people’s covers among the humans, not to attack them. In times before that rule existed out of respect, but Steve has seen a lot since coming down here and honestly… the human’s might finally be catching up to the higher-realms.

The Elders would laugh themselves dead if someone tried to tell them that.

There is nothing outside. No smells out of place, no sounds. There is only two heartbeats – Sam’s and his own. Moth wings beat against the air, crickets call in the grass, a child screams for cheese four houses down.

But what if the Stray was here, and let himself be seen in the corner of Sam’s eye to let Steve know he knew?

Steve sniffs at his food and water suspiciously. There isn’t anything obviously poisoned about them. The bastard Roger-Dummy ate his dinner, though.

Sam is shining light from the stick out into the yard, illuminating patches of the darkness. Nothing stirs to avoid the light.

Satisfied Sam’s not in immediate danger, Steve leaves to check the protective wards.

The rune of the ward traces the entire property line. The rune is strong and untriggered. It retains the smell of salt and cloves. If something went wrong it would stink of sulphur.

There would also have been a painful round of electricity unleashed at whichever unwelcome visitor crossed the line with intention to harm.

If the Winter Stray didn’t intent to harm, only scare, then the wards would have permitted him past. It is plausible, but Steve should be able to smell something.

Steve returns to Sam, who is still standing under the patio light, a giant visible target.

“Of course,” Sam says as Steve jumps up onto the tiles. Steve pauses and tilts his head. Was Sam talking to him, or just out loud?

Sam doesn’t say anything more, so Steve shrugs it off. Humans say weird thing when they think nobody else is listening.

When they go back inside Sam’s heart is beating normal.

Steve dose not nap like usual. Instead he sits upright on his armchair, watching Sam’s blind spots as the man watches his TV shows. When Sam goes to the toilet, Steve does a sweep of the house. All corners. All beds. All cupboards and tables.

He almost believes Sam was worried about nothing. Something normal and stupid. A rat on the patio table or fireworks in the distance.

That theory dies when Sam ushers him into the main bedroom and locks the door. He lets Steve sleep on top of the sheets the whole night.

Steve dose not sleep a wink.

He lays there and worries, licks his paws since he can’t bite his nails, thinking up horror after horror.

What did Sam see?

With the morning comes normalcy.  Complete normalcy. Steve could almost forget there was ever anything wrong.

Sam dose everything at the right time, in perfect routine.

Steve tries his best to beg for more food in his bowl, but Sam has gotten better at resisting. Dammit.

Sam goes back inside to finish his breakfast and Steve using the time to see if the rune barrier has been disabled during the night.

It was frustrating being trapped in the bedroom with Sam, but at least he knew Sam was safe. Still, it was agitating not to be able to go outside and patrol.

Steve tries his best to act normal on the run, which isn’t hard. He loves running, and all the anxiety from yesterday and last night power him on like a steam train.

Steve whines and barks at Sam, trying to convey that the man needs to _move._

The walk is going as normally as the rest of the morning, right up until the moment a new presence is introduced.

A man with a dog stops to talk with Rhodney and Sam. This is unusual. Steve immediately tries to protect Sam from this new factor. What is he after?

Sam is being an asshole.

As the next best thing, Steve takes deep breaths and listens to the words.

The smell hits him second. Curry leftovers turned into breakfast, still on the man’s fingers, hit Steve first.

The second smell is off. Straight away, Steve tenses.

Just like how real dogs never fully relax around Steve, this new dog is the same. He smells wild and dominate, no matter how peaceful and meek he is being.

He smells mature and honed. Dense.

Another Hell-Hound? Here? Steve tries to get close but Sam is still clenching his leash short.

It feels down right undignified now, to be leashed, when Steve knows another Hell-Hound is watching. They get enough shit in the higher-realms for being ‘Fey Lord Lap Dogs’, no matter how many times Steve points out they are noble creatures of immense strength and loyalty, capable of abandoning a contract with a master whenever they please.

Steve sometimes wonders what the other Fey would stay if they knew most Hell-Hounds liked to spend their revival leave playing pets for humans. It would be bad. There would be mortal enemies declared before witnesses.

What’s most painful about this situation is that Steve can’t say anything to the other Hell-Hound. Not with Sam and Rhodney and the owner here. Sure he could say something in their language, but it would still sound like very un-dog-like words.

The way the other Hell-Hound is regarding Steve tells him they know too.

They aren’t very good at pretending to be a dog. They must be young. This must be their first time trying out revival leave as a family’s puppy.

Steve desperately wants to ask them their name. He probably knows them. Steve probably knows every working age Hell-Hound, and they all definitely know Steve.

Sam lets go of the leash and Steve moves, putting his best paw forward and acting the dog role.

Steve doesn’t want them to recognise him. He stops trying to make a scene. It should be fine. His beast and warrior forms are the recognisable ones – no one knows his hound or human forms.

His hound form hasn’t been plastered across war propaganda, hasn’t been the face of a Wild hunt, hasn’t been in the centre of battles now recorded in history.

There is something else.

When they stand and turn, Steve is momentarily taken aback by it.

They look like Bucky.

Not exactly, but enough.  They are larger, and their coat is far shaggier and darker. Their ears are shorter – normal folded ears whereas Bucky’s hung down to his jaw – and their tail is docked.

But Steve only knew Bucky as a juvenile.  And it’s been so long. He could be imagining it.

It still hits him in the gut, taking all the wind out of him.

Over thirty years trying to find a missing friend will do that to a person.

Steve doesn’t try to communicate after that – not in words, not in the rudimentary morse code used by Hell-Hounds in the Wild Hunt – not anything.

To be honest, he doesn’t want anything to do with them.

They part ways, and that is that.

It’s on the homeward stretch when Sam’s says it.

“I think my house is haunted.”

Steve almost stops mid-run. Almost. What sort of fool would stop running? His hound form could do it on auto-pilot for days on end.

He knows it can.

Haunted, hey? Human superstition was, frankly, ridiculous. A part of his updated human knowledge tingles, ringing out with a useful fact.

Festival of children? Festival of Candy?

Steve’s human knowledge wildly grasps around, trying to put it together in a way that makes sense.

In four days the humans of North America will be celebrating their festival of the dead, All’Halloween.

-


	2. Let's Be Friends (gone wrong)

**Let’s be friends (gone wrong!)**

 

**-**

“Oh my fucking god, we’re screwed!” The raccoon tugs at his ears and starts chanting the words of his people, “fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck, fuck.”_

Bucky sits to the side, impassive. Maybe a bit annoyed. ‘Do a favour for a friend’, the procyonian fool said. ‘It’s just a little fight club in the McDonald’s parking lot’ he said, ‘I’ll steal you more chocolate than you can eat’.

Bucky has looked up fight clubs since the incident in the parking lot.

Firstly, what happened in the parking lot was not anything close to a fight club, and secondly, they shouldn’t even _be talking about fight club._

“You fucked up,” Rocket sighs from his fetal position. Bucky paces around in warrior form, trying to process that his mission target had gotten away in a … in a remote controlled toy car? With the remote control duck-tapped to the hood of said toy car?

“You fucked up,” Bucky reprimes. “Mission details were neglectful and intel was compromised.”

The raccoon hisses at him.

“We are screwed. The powerful ones are going to start sniffing around. Messing with a Way is big. Big.”

Bucky feels nervous. And scared? Worried?

He can’t go back to the powerful ones. Not after escaping. They are looking for him, he knows. They want to put him back into the stasis-chamber and wash his mind again.

Bucky sits down on the dewy grass and breathes into his hands.

He will not go back. They will not find him. Everything will work out. He is hidden and safe.

Befriending a raccoon was a bad idea.

Bucky shifts back into his canine form as quickly as prized bone china breaks when dropped.

“Do not make contact with me until this all blows over, plus five months.”

He then runs off back home. To his kennel. Warm, his, safe.

Bucky is just a dog. He does not want to be anything else.

-

The next day his master is up before the sun, restless in his house.

The master is usually up exactly half an hour before he needs to leave for work. He is deriving from the norm.

Bucky naps pressed up against the back door and listens. Apparently today is the master’s day off, which means he gets up… earlier?

Bucky is trying to learn as much as he can about normal creatures, but his master is confusing.

They go on a run, following the normal route. Usually they run it at 8pm, every Wednesday, Thursday, and Sunday.

The outside is different in the morning.

Bucky keeps his head down and makes as little fuss as possible. Every person they come across is a potential powerful one in disguise, just waiting for him to give his identity away.

 _There you are_ , he can imagine them crowing.

Bucky is not going back. He is not The Asset. He is not The Winter Stray.

He is Bucky. It is a name that came to him in his dreams. His dreams gave it to him. His new life gave it.

But even then, he hides underneath all the liver fur.

He is a dog called Solider. He guard’s his owner’s property and his shed.

The shed has a hidden basement filled with weapons and warrior materials. Bucky’s guard job is important.

It’s the happiest he ever remembers being – trusted to guard something so important to the human master who took him in.

Bucky watches his master’s back and keeps to his side, constantly scanning for threats. He sees the two men looking at them before his master dose. A growl appears silently in his throat, ready to be used.

The master stops and greets them amicably. They seem to be familiar with one another. Bucky stands guard on his master’s right.

There is a hound contained behind one of the men by his running lead. Bucky has seen a few dogs like him, but this one looks and smells new.

He is very… fluffy. And his colour is like cooking? Sugar?

The dog is let go, and he instantly makes his way directly towards the master.

Bucky tense, ready to protect and attack, but the dog’s black eyes are focused on _Bucky._

Their scent finally hits and it’s not what Bucky was expecting. He dose not smell like the a pet dog (carpet, soil, humans, soap) but more like a wild creature.

A _dangerous_  wild creature.

There is something else he smells like. Beds, or, no. Not beds, but houses?

Bucky quickly holds still. Protocol he is trying to forget telling him to submit and await orders.

It takes all of Bucky’s will power to remain still and standing. When the not-dog finally turns away, Bucky gets a rush of happiness.

Later in the run, Bucky finally remembers what the happiness is called. Pride.

When they get home, Bucky runs straight to the back fence and looks between the gaps to the park beyond. He never really paid attention to the fact his master’s property backed onto the looping park beyond a cursory tactical appraisal.

Now Bucky sits beside the fence and waits.

He wants to fight the not-dog. Wants to see if he is not-dog like Bucky is not-dog.

Wants to ask why the not-dog smelt like, like… family.

When all the dogs start barking a night, Bucky listens carefully. It’s stupid, he doesn’t know what not-dog’s bark sounds like.

Yet he can hear it, distant to his ears but there.

-

Not-dog finds Bucky first. He jumps over the fence like four meters of woods is a minor barrier. Which it is.

For someone like Bucky.

“Hey!” Their collar is a bright orange string of fabric jack-o-lanterns. Bucky can’t remember if he was wearing it last time they met.

Bucky sits obediently and politely still, waiting for them to talk more.

“Argh, um,” they pace on the spot, claws sinking into the frost. It is 1.a.m. “I’m Roger.”

“Roger,” Bucky repeats, please to have intel. He waits for more intel.

With Rocket banished from being his friend until suspicion blows over, replacing a Rocket with a Roger is a logical step.

“I live over on, um, Marvel Terrace. I’m on revival leave, like you!”

Bucky’s ears prick up in an unwanted show of emotion. Like him? Roger is like him? Oh thank gods.

“Anyway, did you hear about the way-point being destroyed?”

Bucky immediately starts calculating the least suspicious thing to say.

“Yes.”

“Crazy right?”

“Yes.”

Roger leans in, voice lowering. Bucky has good night vision but he almost can’t see Roger tonight. It’s a new moon. They are inside a garden bed, under heavy foliage.

“Did you hear… the Winter Stray was there. That night?”

“Yes.”

“You did?”

Bucky is currently panicking.

“…yes.”

“Oh, okay. Word travels fast,” Roger mutters. “I would like to ask, um, Solider, if you would want to hunt the Winter Stray with me?”

Bucky calculates the least suspicious response.

“Yes.”

“Fantastic!”

_No._

They start in the McDonald’s car park. Bucky feels a headache coming on.

“Okay, so this is our starting point,” Roger announces. He has been chatting no stop about his human Sam in the time it took them to get here.

They followed the storm drain channels and parkways. Roger asked about Bucky’s human once.

“My master is kind,” he felt the need to defend them after Roger’s endless praise for his own. “They feed me nutritious food and I am yet to go hungry. We run on Wednesdays, Thursdays and Sundays.”

Roger watches him for a beat too long.

“Neat.”

Roger filled the rest of the journey with more talk of Sam.

“Here’s where it used to be.” They both sit on the cement, starting at the arched scorch mark left in the cheap brick.

“Burnt.” Bucky offers his observation.

“It was tampered with, and the infinity gem that powered it is… gone.” Roger seems to be waiting for some reaction, so Bucky grunts.

A worker of the McDonald’s store comes outside, a cigarette already lit in their mouth. They look up and freeze. Roger and Bucky freeze mid-important business meeting.

“Oh my god, dogs,” the young man whines, immediately starting to inch very slowly towards them. “So cute, so cute, who wants some pats?”

It is 1.30.a.m. on a cold night in Washington. The uniformed worker looks like he could see a bear going through the trash and come over for ‘pats’.

Roger switches personalities before Bucky’s very eyes, tails wagging like a turbine and bounding over to the child-aged worker.

“Hello beautiful, hello,” they gush, running their hands threw Roger’s copious amounts of luscious fur. “Are you lost? Poor thing, are you lost?”

The questions with no intended answers are driving Bucky crazy. His master never pulls this _reverse-psychology_ mumbo on him.

“Do you have tags, beautiful? Oh, I like your collar! Yes I do! Yes I do!”

Dear gods. Bucky walks away, pretending he is searching the scene of the crime.

“I will call your owner, huh? Sound like a plan big guy? You two hungry? Is that why you’re hanging out by the bins? Awww, stay here, I’ll be back.”

Once the worker disappears inside his place of employment, Roger is back by his side, serious and professional.

“The Way was just recently re-located here from the day-care centre. Were you aware of that or-?”

“I try not to use Ways,” Bucky tells him. Yes, he had been aware of the old location. He had actually used it, tumbling down in his hurry to leave no trail. It looked so unused on the other side – there were cobwebs – Bucky thought it lead to some far flung place no one remembered anymore.

It actually ended in a day-care centre's reception room. Thankfully he used the Way as a dog. The staff just assumed he wondered in somehow. It he had been in any of his other forms there would have been more questions. More camera footage being recovered. More attention.

Bucky looks around and notices the Ways position here behind the McDonald’s is perfectly angled to not catch in any of the security camera’s fields. Whoever re-located it knew what they were doing.

Busy but anonymous location, traffic 24hrs a day, near local transport for travellers, and an identifiable location for being picked up or dropped off. No records of its presence.

“Why would the re-location trigger the sabotage?” Bucky asked Rocket that too. Why is Thanos after the infinity stone, when people were starting to use it again, and not back when it was in that day-care centre?

“I don’t know. And I don’t know why the Winter Stray was here, of all people.”

Bucky tenses. That’s right, he’s the prime suspect.

“We should take note of all scents in the area, and then follow the trials of the suspect ones.”

“Good idea Solider.”

Bucky expects for them to split and covered ground twice as fast, but Roger stays at his shoulder, smelling up the same scents alongside him.

It’s a bit too close. A bit too friendly. Bucky shakes it off and focuses on finding Thanos’s scent, hoping to point it out to Roger.

He can smell an older Roger scent. He has been on the scene before.

Bucky feels the hair on the back of his neck stand up in panic, for a second forgetting his warrior scent and hound scent are different and separate.

Hydra made sure of that. Made sure he could disappear with a simple shift. Only someone familiar with all four of his forms could possible track him.

“The burnt magic scent was strong last time, we tracked it down to the highway, but that’s not the direction the Stray went in the video footage. So, we’re looking for something else. Have you ever been on a Wild Hunt on the Stray’s scent?”

“No,” Bucky answer’s truthfully.

“I have,” Roger says. Bucky’s hair is instantly back on end. “He smells like… ice and scabs. I don’t like ice.”

Bucky doesn’t like ice either.

Ice and scabs is his beast form. Which means Roger will still fail to pick the warrior scent.

The warrior doesn’t smell like ice and scabs, it smells like gun powder and hot metals. Hound form smells like grass and jerky treats.

Bucky can’t remember what human form smells like. He never used it as the Asset, the form too useless and weak. There is no strength or speed to be gained with the human form. He has used it briefly, twice, since escaping.

It felt like fear.

They come across Rocket’s scent, but he just smells like raccoon. It’s been a few days, and things are washed away enough it’s impossible to notice how Rocket and Bucky’s scents intermingled.

Bucky finds Thanos’s scent where he knew it was.

“What’s this?” He acts curious, pawing at the side of a dumpster.

“Let me smell,” Roger gently shoulders his way in. He huffs in air loud enough for Bucky to hear. Bucky watches his chest expand and contract with the air.

Roger’s body is… large… and fluffy.

“The burnt magic, this is what I followed last time I was here.” Roger dismisses it. Bucky shifts around, arranging the words in his head.

“If it smells like tampered magic, then, that’s our culprit?” He didn’t mean to pose it like a question. Roger resumes searching the ground.

“The trail is a dead-end. It ends under the high-way.”

“I was – am – a tracker. I can try.”

They share a look with entirely too much direct eye contact.

“It’s been three days, the scent will be _weaker.”_

Yes, but Bucky knows what he is smelling for.

A hamster in a remote controlled car.

The employee bursts back out, ending the conversation. Roger eats the scraps of mince meat on offer, and after he fails to be poisoned, Bucky takes some too.

“Okay, now lets get a look at that tag and…” Steve bolts, and Bucky follows his flowing tail like a carriage.

2.a.m. and they are under the highway, in a narrow corridor meant for walking humans, Bucky can only assume.

Thanos’s scent dose indeed go cold here, but that’s only because his remote car hit top speed.

Bucky trots through to the other side of the tunnel and keeps following the concrete path. Thanos was trying to get away as fast as possible, so he would have stayed off the grass.

Eventually they pick it back up when the path takes a sharp corner.

“Genius,” Roger praises. Bucky feels oddly hot and bashful.

They lose Thanos a few more times, but they always manage to pick it back up by fanning out and using guess work.

And because Bucky knows which house Thanos lives in.

They reach Thanos’s house at 3.a.m.

It is an old but big residence, home to two university students and one part-time glassie at a inner-city club.

Bucky knows from Rocket that Thanos escaped his cage a year ago, and his owner presumes him dead. Thanos now lives under the floor boards and within the walls, carefully scheming and waiting his time.

Roger walks forwards and hits the house’s wards with a crack of his skull.

He shakes it off like nothing happened.

“So, those are some good wards,” Rogers casually comes back to Bucky’s side.

“Only those who fear construct wards as strong as this,” Bucky mono-tones. “We have found the culprit’s lair.”

They loop around the property after that. Roger hits the invisible wall a few more times, the pain increasing with each hit. The ward remembers its foes.

They sit again in professional silence, staring at the inscriptions on the ground which glow every time Roger tries to breach the boundary.

“This is strong,” Bucky observes. Roger nods.

“I’ll have to talk to Natasha about this. Thankyou for your help, but we should be getting back now in case our humans stir early from their beds. I will fetch you again if I am in need of such an excellent tracker.”

Bucky agrees and they part ways.

They happen to see each other again in only a few short hours.

-

Jogging along a tree lined road, Sam notices a familiar pair coming his way.

“Hey man!” He calls out happily, raising the hand not currently roped around a leash and having it’s blood flow constricted.

Roger spots the pair as well, and the pull on the leash stops so suddenly Sam nearly losses his balance.

Stevens takes his head-phones out, a sure sign he intends to stop and talk once they are close enough.

“Morning,” Stevens greets, “no Rhodney today?”

“No, he’s getting his beauty sleep I imagine.”

“Good. Now I can talk shit about him.” Sam actually cackles.

They go on to jog and talk. Sam mentally reassures himself Stevens must have only just started his morning exercise, since he is hardly out of breath.

Somehow the conversation gets onto how the city is changing.

“I’m not a D.C. boy so let rip with the criticism man. I’m from Harlem, New York City.”

“Nice,” Stevens compliments. There is a 50/50 chance he actually knows where Harlem is. “I’m from California, but I was born in Wakanda.”

“Wakanda?” Sam thinks he knows it. A small African country. He remembers some older guys who had been on tour in Libya cursing about it. Down in the middle somewhere. Tiny, like the state of New York.

“Yeah? Wakanda, eh?” Sam trods along the footpath, footsteps heavy with exhaustion. “I think I know it. It’s the one they reckon is going to be the new North Korea in fifty years.” Sam jokes.

As he says it Sam realises it’s not a good joke.

“Why they say that?” Stevens asks with disinterest.

“You know…” Sam scrambles around for words. “Nations don’t seclude themselves for no good reason. Either they are scared or they’re hiding something.”

Stevens snorts and puts his head-phones back in.

“You are not wrong, Wilson.”

They complete a loop of their shared neighbourhood in harsh breaths. When they reach the street their paths diverge at, Stevens holds out a hand.

“My name is Eric, by the way.” Sam takes the sweaty hand on offer.

“Sam. I don’t think I will be running with you again. Way too fast. I don’t think you noticed bit I died back on George Street.”

Eric laughs at him. Sam tries to convince himself the man is laughing _with_ him.

“So I’m talking to your ghost right now?” He pokes at Sam’s arm. Sam pretends the poke hurt his corporal form.

“No, this is zombie me. I resurrected myself through mortification and will-power alone.”

“Impressive. Just in time for Halloween.”

“Yeah, that’s fast approaching isn’t it?”

“Three days,” Eric says it like he’s predicting the end times.

 


	3. lo-fi hip hop beats to study / have an identify crisis to

**lo-fi hip hop beats to study / have an identity crisis to**

 

-

Bucky paces up and down the alley in hound form. He likes his hound form, normal and unscarred. The powerful ones always saved torture for the warrior. It is a part of him he gets to keep.

“I’m fucked.” Bucky announces this with certainty. He pauses, thinks it over, and amends his statement. “I’m so close to being fucked that this is the fore-play.”

His friendship with Rocket has certainly changed him.

Said friend continues lounging on top of a trash can, eating a half-gone banana.

“Rough fore-play?”

Bucky thinks that over too, drawing on all his knowledge from Rocket’s vast collection of dirty videos he takes pride in sharing. Rocket used to make a rich living off stealing DVD’s from Blockbusters. Obviously that income stream went bust. Now he steals from sex shops and postal vans.

Bucky never bother to ask why it _obviously_ went bust. He thinks it’s something he is meant to know.

“No. More like… teasing he’ll be rough?”

Rocket licks at the brown banana very suggestively.

“And do you want him to be?”

Bucky splutters.

“What? No? I’ve only met him in hound form I can’t – no.” Rocket just smirks.

“That doesn’t mean anything. You think I let my superior intelligence get in the way of bagging all the hot raccoon ladies in the area? You known bestiality porn is my favourite of the human stu-

“Never mind,” Bucky tilts his head down and hurries away, desperately trying to hide his face in case someone recognised him and the raccoon and put two and two together. He would die. He shouldn’t willingly hang around creatures like Rocket, yet here he is, hanging around trash cans like a couple of bar flies - but sadder and smellier.

Bucky slinks through the darkest parts of the park back to his home. This was a waste of time. All his friends have been absolutely shit at giving any sort of helpful advice. Well, he only has the one, but _still._

Christ, this is going to go badly. Roger was temporarily mollified by tracking down the location of the infinity stone theif, but that didn’t distract him from the Winter Stray in the way Bucky hoped.

Now Roger thinks with the time freed up, they should really ‘apply themselves’ to finding the ‘fucking bastard’ Winter Stray before he ‘disappears like a whim ass ghost’ and robs Roger of the chance to ‘finish his quest for vengeance – no, not revenge. Vengeance. It’s a healthy coping mechanism. Don’t look at me like that.’

Once the streets clear of cars, Bucky is to meet Roger on the end of Marvel Terrace and help him hunt. Hunt himself.

Bucky is going to do it. He wants to help Roger and wants to make a new, better, friend.

Who hates him with a burning passion.

“I’m fucked.”

Five hours later, the sun has risen and the roads have gone quiet as everyone reaches their place of work. Bucky easily slips under the fence where the ground is sandy and runs his way over to Marvel Terrace, worried he is keeping Roger waiting.

He arrives before Roger.

The hound’s body lights up with joy when he spots Bucky.

“Really to find this piece of shit?” He barks at the end of his greeting, happy and excited. As the furry dog comes over and hits their shoulders together, Bucky realises his own face is dog-smiling. It feels weird, bigger and more unconscious than normal. He shudders to think what it would look like on his warrior face.

“Yeah let’s go,” there is another word trying to get out, and Bucky has to loosen his jaw and think hard to bring it to reality in his voice. “Pal,” he adds to the end, too late to not sound weird.

Roger doesn’t react like someone whose just listen to a stuttered word-soup of a sentence. His tails starts wagging so hard there are after-images.

Bucky spends most of the day not looking for himself, but looking at Roger. They stroll through parks, crawl under buildings, go swimming in the pond to get the cobwebs from their coats, chase a few ducks, play chicken with a government officer from the pound, bark at two cats through the window of their house, and get given leftover bones behind the butcher’s shop.

Bucky collapses into an exhausted and exhilarated heap once he gets back home.

He had been slowly sewing together a plan all day, and he’s pretty sure it will work. Roger will go to the construction yard and he will wait there to ‘ambush’ the Winter Stray.

(Roger will assume he figured this out for himself).

Face to face, Bucky can then explain he didn’t have anything to do with the Way’s destruction (although have you heard of this Thanos guy?), clear his name, and get on with making a new best friend.

In hindsight, he really shouldn’t have been that confident, but it had been such a _good_ day.

Bucky only has the one set of clothes which fit his warrior form, although some of his master’s bigger outfits might just fit him. But he wasn’t going to borrow from his master who was fastidious enough to notice, and anyway soft sheep skin and protest march t-shirts didn’t give much protection.

Bucky makes his way down to the storage shed Rocket keeps his illegal DVD’s in. Jammed in a corner is all of Bucky’s worldly possessions, pretty much all of it stolen.

Fear before a mission is not an emotion Bucky is used to. Usually before missions he prayed it went bad, hoping to die and get it over with, yet that never happened. He never let it happen. It was like there was always some stronger part of him that knew of something to live and struggle for, even if the rest of him had forgotten.

It wasn’t true fear which bubbled in his belly. The emotion was nerves maybe, at meeting Roger again, at revealing himself in a form he was so used to hiding in. No one is meant to see the Winter Stray and live, he remembers that.

Bucky dresses in a skin tight black shirt which covers his warrior’s weapon arm. Over that he straps snug a bullet proof vest with three old bullet tears. Over that he zips a motorcycle leather jacket which was described as ‘distressed black’ in the store. Bucky had felt a kin-ship with the thing.

Elbow guards meant for skate board riders and motorbike gloves completed the ensemble. Then went on a dark, dark, pair of navy combat pants, thick socks up to his knees, boots with steel caps and shin guards meant for soccer kids.

A knife here a knife there, a gun here a gun there, a balaclava over his head, a motorcycle helmet, a pair of tactical googles. Bucky didn’t really expect a fight for his life so he didn’t prepare himself for one. That was probably his first mistake.

He eased out of the self-storage yard on 'his' motorcycle soon after.

The car park which overlooked an ugly stretch of the Potomac River seemed empty when Bucky drove into it. He eased the bike right up to the bank and killed the engine, sitting there listening. No one made a move to announce themselves.

Bucky decided to casually peel his gloves off and reveal his metal left hand to the moonlight.

It was like the flag being dropped on a race track.

He just barely manages to duck and roll away from a spine crushing attack. Thrown off the bike and tumbling into the gravel, Bucky watches in horror as the bike bares the brunt of a strike meant for him. The suspension bends and groans, the padding of the seat rips apart, a few screws from inside its frame ping sadly.

“My bike!” Bucky shouts. Five years ago he would’ve been physically incapable of talking during a fight. Too disciplined. Too brain-washed. Nothing to talk about, frankly.

But that was _his bike._

The spirit attacking him doesn’t pause, just lifts her poison drenched sword from the bike’s seat and hurls it at him. Bucky ducks right into the incoming maws of a beast.

Caught completely flat-footed, Bucky shifts as fast as he can into his own beast form. The size change alters his trajectory significantly and the beast overshoots and coops a suddenly-appeared beast to the throat.

The two hostiles both take pause.

“It’s a Hell-Hound?” The beast hisses. The sword-maiden gives an angry runt and pulls a new sword from thin air.

“No body tells me anything,” she makes to throw it again. Bucky immediately back peddles.

“Wait!” He shouts, tucking his tail between his legs and trying to looks like a harmless and reasonably hulking half-tonne wolf-monster. “Can’t you _loser_ use words? This ain’t fucking Fight Club.”

The hostiles take an even greater pause.

“Well… that doesn’t sound like Hydra,” the beast says. Bucky knows it is probably Rogers, but the second the word is said he forgets.

_Hydra._

He remembers.

“Hydra?” Bucky has slipped back. The voice that comes out is deep and distressed from lack of use even though he was talking just seconds ago.

The powerful ones have found him.

“I won’t.” Is all he can manage to growl through the rush of adrenaline, more intense then even the near-hit on the bike. He won’t let himself go back alive. Bucky knew that the second he escaped. He will never go back.

“If you try I will kill you, and then I will kill the powerful ones _in their beds._ You tell them that I will kill them in their beds and I will not rest until everything is _dead. I will kill myself before you take me, I will kill anyone wh-”_ the beast steps forward and Bucky lunges, desperate to survive.

Now it is the hostiles who are flat-footed, and Bucky easily captures a maw full of scruff and throws the beast onto his back with a roll of bodies. The upper-hand disappears disastrously quickly, and soon they are a thunderously snarling moving ball of wrestling fur. They leave large cracks in the asphalt chipseal.

Power hind legs cleave ribbons of flesh off each other. Less damage is done by their fangs, because they have both clamped down on mouthfuls of each other and refuse to let go, using the hold to throw the other body around.

Hydra must have sent their best. It is strange, this operative does not feel familiar. The fighting style is all wrong.

At some point, the wrestle comes to a stand-still. They are almost equally matched in beast form.

Fuck. So at _best_ he is going to lose half his blood in order to finish this guy off, and then he’s still got the sword-maiden to deal with.

Bucky jumps back and re-calibrated his attention on her. She is still standing by the bike, sword still in hand. She looks panicked.

The second there is space between the warring beasts, she hurls a flock swords. They all sink perfectly into the ground, creating a fence between Bucky and his primary target. Electricity starts to arch between the swords.

Another round of swords are spat in a long line behind him. Bucky realises what it happening now, and tries to sprint, but by then she has him figured out and trapped in a square of electrical walls.

Bucky starts pacing like a caged lion. The hostiles take the time to re-group.

They come swooning over to the edge of the electrical cage after a lengthy discussion. The sword-maiden struts over first in her murder boots.

“Alright pup, let’s use our words.”

Bucky snarls and shakes. No one has ever called him that. What does it mean?

The beast gingerly goes to walk closer, limps heavily, then shifts into an undamaged form.

They are slight and fair, bundled in red cloth and coined mail. Bucky stares at him. The sight slaps him with memories.

_Bucky!_

But that is his name. Bucky’s name is Bucky. It’s his. He chose it.

They clear their throat and look slightly shy for a second before turning a fire-starting glare onto him.

He remembers being wrapped up in a hug. Bucky can’t remember ever being hugged. This frustrates him. For some reason he wants to spit the word _jerk_ at the slight man.

“My name is Steve,” Steve then pauses for a reaction.

_Jerk. Jerk, jerk, jerk, jerk. Jerk. Punk. Punk, punk, punk._

“Punk,” he says it with extreme malice. It gets mangled on his long tongue and sounds garbled and wrong to Bucky’s ears. He goes back to pacing and snarling, more and more frustrated by the second.

Steve goes still. He was still before but now he is stiller than still. It is a while until he starts talking again.

“I hate Hydra.”

In terms of the best things to say to Bucky in that situation, ‘I hate Hydra’ was in the top 10. He must visibly calm because Steve sucks in a breath and continues.

“I hunt down Hydra and kill them. You used to be Hydra, so I thought you still were. You are not Hydra anymore?”

“No.”

“What happened?”

“I escaped.” He can’t help but puff up in pride. He escaped!

“How?”

“When I returned from my mission all my handlers were dead, and the base was burned down. I am supposed to report to the next base and the powerful ones, but instead I ran.”

Steve shrugs his shoulders at the story. He looks unimpressed. Bucky fights the urge to throw himself into the air and fry his brains out just to show how close he is to tearing him apart for that.

It took more bravery than Bucky ever knew he possessed to turn and run. The powerful ones created him, they trained him, they knew all and controlled all. To run was to… believe.

“Yeah, you’re welcome,” Steve says. Bucky _hates_ him. “But you were still their assassin. I need information.”

Everyone needs something. Only Rocket and the human master don’t want something from him.

“I don’t remember,” he snaps. Both hostiles shoot him a look.

“I haven’t even asked the question yet,”

“Well, I don’t remember. I don’t remember _anything.”_

“James Buchanan Barnes.”

Bucky stops his pacing. It feels like fingers have run up his spine, but no memories rise up.

“I don’t remember but,” thankfully the hostiles stay silent as he tries to find the words. “I’ve heard it.”

“Is he alive, please?” It is like another person is talking to him now. Steve sounds like he looks for once, slight and pale. Injured and weak.

“I don’t _remember_.”

“Okay boys,” the shield-maiden breaks in when Steve opens his mouth again. She holds a hand against small Steve’s chest. He protests in a whisper. She whispers back.

_“We know they could mind-wipe people Steve, get a grip. Your only going to damage the information further if you push.”_

“My name is Natasha. What is yours?”

Bucky doesn’t want to tell them. What if they are Hydra trying to grain his trust? Why if they go back and talk about him and Hydra hears? Bucky is his name. It is safe. No one from his old life knows it.

“I don’t remember.”

“Okay, we will call you Winter then. Why were you outside the Branch Avenue McDonald’s three nights ago?”

Finally.

“Someone was going to steal the way-point, and I tried to stop them.”

“How did you know?”

“Friend. He used to steal stuff for Thanos, but he stopped once he realised. Thanos, ergh, is building something. He was stronger and _smarter_ than my friend remembered.”

“Thanos, who is that?”

“He lives under the house on Galaxy Drive. He used to be a pet hamster, but he… changed. Acquired something. Kept acquiring things. Now he lives under the floor boards and no one can get past the house wards. My friend knew he was vulnerable outside the house but his intel was bad.”

Steve nods to Natasha in a manner that says ‘I know it’.

9 Galaxy Drive. He had better know it, Bucky led him straight to it.

“Is he dangerous?”

“Yes. No one escaped me, but he did. It was… weird.”

After a few more useless questions which Bucky tries to answer at length, the hostiles calm down and remove the cage.

Bucky feels awkward now that it is obvious he is hanging around to talk on his own free-will.

“Why are you in Washington, Winter?”

“Hiding,” and then he adds a bit more honestly, “trying to remember. Gonna have to move on after this.” Bucky know he should, but he also knows he won't. He should make them assume he's left however.

“We won’t tell anyone.”

“Doesn’t matter. You won’t mean to tell, but you will.”

“Well, it was good meeting you. You are a strong fighter. Maybe once you remember, you can help me kill Hydra?”

Bucky tries not to look _too_ blood-thirsty.

“It would be a pleasure.”

They part ways on oddly amicable terms. When he goes over to his bike they have the honourability to look embarrassed.

“Here,” Natasha touches it and the damage repairs before his eyes. Sadly Bucky realises he has to replace the bike now. He can’t risk her tracking the vehicle.

“Thanks,” he shifts into warrior form and straddles his bike, testing the suspension just to be sure. They stand off to the side like teenagers not sure how to say goodbye to a relative after Thanksgiving.

He knows that because his master's cousins and uncle came to visit last Thanksgiving. Master is always so awkward around his sire's family.

He rides in loops and random paths through Washington until the gas burns low. The city is twice as big as he realised. There are a lot of big buildings in the middle. He wonders what the big white building is with the tall gates.

Weird.

He parks the bike in the most crowded street he can find, leaves the keys in, and starts walking. He keeps his head down and stays in the shadows. Warrior form only passes for human looking in the worst of light.

Bucky knows what he has to do, but it takes more time than he is proud of to back himself up into a bathroom stall and shift into human form.

Human form is numb from lack of use. He is still dressed in the clothes the homeless shelter gave him, handed down and once-warm.  There is a blue cap on his head, hiding his short brown hair, and a pair of dollar store reading glasses on his face.

Bucky catches multiple buses, north and south, east and west.

On one bus he is the only passenger. He sits in the front seat and stares out the windshield at the dark road.

“You look dead on your feet, just off a shift?” Bucky nods. People usually assume the most normal thing. Whatever he is asking, Bucky should agree with. “Man, this gives me a great idea for Halloween. ‘Tired shift worker’. I reckon I could pull it off with a bit of eye-shadow. Only two more days now, can you believe it? My kids are going nuts.”

He honestly can’t believe it.

-


	4. Halloween ÉҰƏ

**Halloween ÉҰƏ**

 

**-**

“Did you try to follow him?” Fury queries, sitting stiffly in a high-backed chair. Natasha rolls her eyes. If Steve rolled _his_ eyes at Fury he would get burnt into a famous little piece of charcoal.

“Yes. He knows the city and human society intimately and slipped away. The Stray has been residing there for some time, it appears.”

All Fury said to that was: "interesting."

Steve hadn’t even know buses traveled underground in vast systems like moles. It had been scary.

“We will add another operative to the case,” Fury raised a finger in thought and nodded to himself. “Virginia is available. Her skills should compliment yours. She is a human realm specialists.”

“I don’t think we need another set of hands here,” Steve said before Natasha could elbow the wind out of him.

“You don’t?” It was asked so sarcastically Steve wasn’t entirely sure if it was a rhetorical question or not.

“There is another – ah, a Hell-Hound. Solider. He’s been a big help. A really skilled tracker.”

Fury was quiet for too long. Steve shifted his eyes away from the Elder and watched the flames in the fire place flicker. The one uncovered eye was burning a single hole through Steve’s forehead.

Looks like he was going to achieve his dream of becoming a stick of charcoal.

 _Draw good things with me, Natasha._ He tried to mentally plead pathetically with the woman next to him.

“There _is_ no other Hell-Hound.”

If he was in the company of normal people, they would all be exchanging confused looks. Instead he had Fury and Natasha, both cool and calm like drones.

“I’m pretty sure there is.”

“I’m pretty sure there isn’t, because we pulled everyone living, passing through, or _thinking_ about going to Washington. You are the only Hell-Hound in one hundred plus miles, Steven.”

“Maybe he forgot to update the records?”

“That’s not how it works. The records automatically update when a documented creature settles down in a location. If this hound _is_ there, than he’s not a documented creature.”

This time Natasha did spare a single, confused, look from the corner of her golden eye. Fury shifts in his chair, leathery skin scratching again the wood.

“You will watch him too. There is no way this is unrelated. The stone thief, the Stray, and now your mystery Hell-Hound. Something is going on in Washington. Fix it before this becomes an issue.”

“Oh yeah sure let me just pull the solution out of my fucking _butt_.” Steve did not say this to Fury’s face. He did not say this while they were still inside the floating fortress. Steve said it the instant they touched earthen soil, a whole realm away from the all-seeing powers.

Natasha smirks.

“You should introduce me to your friend.”

“Are you kidding? I’ve been away from Sam too long. I haven’t slept since I got two kilos of my own flesh carved off my body, and you want me to arrange a hang-out with someone I, frankly, am trying to make a good impression on?”

Natasha cocked her head, golden hair flowing across her cheeks.

“Aw, Stiv, you like him?”

Steve sighed, his shoulders sloping in defeat.

“Well it’s irrelevant now. Apparently he’s some fugitive or something.”

It was 5.a.m human time when they got back. Thankfully time moved slower for the humans, and they had only lost fifteen minutes during the four hour grilling he’d just barely survived up at Shield Of The Realms.

Steve was tired. It was dark. He stumbled up the path to the front door and plonked his skull against the cold wood.

“Nat,” he grunted. She grunted back and floated through the door.

It happened all in one go. He yawned and shifted down to hound form. The door reacted violently to the spiritual force. Heavy wood flung back into Steve’s snout. He yelped and pushed back on instinct, slamming the door back into its frame where it rebounded like a trampoline.

“You’re an idiot,” Natasha judged from further inside the house, hand already on the fridge door.

“I just got attacked by a _fricken_ door.” Can this night get any worse?

Pounding foot-steps were coming up the hall. Natasha reacted first, flying through the air and landing behind Steve, shifting into her human form on a dime. The form was now cloaked in black fighting clothes.

An interesting change.

“Bark at me, you idiot,” she snapped, already backing up and making to run across the front yard. Steve did as instructed and tried to rally himself. The first growl was too quiet and cracked. Not very convincing.

By the time Sam has rounded the corner in his boxers, Steve was putting on a convincing show of being a very good and successful guard dog.

Steve weighed up the merits of running after the shadowy intruder booking it down the street, but decided he was too tired. Instead he growled and paced and barked for all he was worth.

“Holy shit,” Sam gasped. The human stood there breathing in his door way for too long. Steve had quietened down by then, sitting practically on Sam’s foot and trying to get a few pats out of the situation.

Hell-Hounds weren’t the most natural of magic users, but Steve could do some very rudimentary emotion casting thanks to his long years with Natasha. Calmness, safeness, and dismissiveness were the emotions he projected towards his human.

Poor guy. He probably needed the blanket emotions. After a while Sam’s body finally started relaxing, muscle by muscle.

“Good boy,” he said down at Steve, scratching at his ear with more attention. Steve added generosity to the cast-work.

Dummy-Roger had obviously eaten all his dinner again. He was starting to hate that guy.

Wait. Steve opened his eyes and peered into the house. It was the wrong thing to do, because Sam was watching him and instantly went on alert as Steve did, following his line of sight.

They both stopped breathing at the same time, registering as one that Dummy-Roger was sitting pressed against the glass of the back door, looking into the house unblinkingly.

Shit.

_Disbelief. Dismissiveness. Tiredness._

“Roger?” The spike of fear in Sam was so strong Steve could smell it.

_DISBELIEF. DISMISSIVENESS. TIREDNESS._

Sam passed out.

Natasha floated up soon after. She had been watching the whole thing from across the street.

“Don’t worry, I can wipe him.” Steve failed to hold back a sob. He didn’t want his human friend to be wiped. He had been so good. He had never used magic on Sam, and now in one night they had messed up in the stupidest of ways and Sam was going to be wiped.

“I don’t know, maybe he will just assume it was a dream?” Natasha lifted Sam’s body and locked Steve with a scathing expression.

“Fine, I won’t wipe. But I’ll have to suppress. There is no way he’ll just assume it was nothing, the emotions were too intense.”

They put Sam to bed and prepared to suppress the night in Sam’s memory. They had a brief whispered-shouting match over it. Steve wanted to be gentle, Natasha accepted nothing less but thorough.

It was just on six in the morning when everything was done. Steve switched Sam’s alarm off and thankfully the man slept through.

Steve collapsed in the carpet and fell asleep almost instantly.

The carpet smelt like humans and normal. Why did things have to go to shit? Natasha ran her ghostly finger through his fur and murmured her goodbyes.

“Get some sleep. I will prepare Virginia for the case. We will start at sun-set.”

-

Sam opens up his inbox.

_Forward this email on to five others before midnight or the ghost of Johnny Bravo will eat you ali-_

Delete.

_Internal memo: Everyone have a happy Halloween weekend, from the Veteran Affairs Office._

Delete.

_You haven’t been to the dentist in ten months, it’s time to book an appointment. Happy Halloween! Look after your teeth._

Delete.

_Yo, heard you’ve got a ghost problem? I want to check it out. I will be coming by at 4 o’clock this evening to set up cameras and sensors. Tony._

“Tony?” Sam doesn’t know a Tony. The email address doesn’t reveal any clues either. Ironbabe69? What?

@hotmail.com

Oh, okay.

Even weirder.

At 3:55.p.m someone knocks on his door like they was using a shoe. Sam opens it up and finds a forty year old dressed as a twenty year old standing on the steps.

The man’s arms are filled with gear. He probably _had_ used his shoe.

“Hello. Sam Wilson? Owner of a potentially haunted house?”

If this was a few days ago and all that had happened was an unlocking door and a sick dog, Sam would have sent them on their way. But last night…

Last night there had been unrecognisable whispers throughout his nightmare, and he knew for certain someone was moving clothes in his wardrobe. He had put discrete bits of tape across things since last time, and they were all disturbed when he checked before bed.

“Ergh, yes,” Sam feels like they should be shaking hands, but Tony is still balancing what looks like a printer and a lamp.

“I’m Tony,” Stark turns and shrugs a shoulder at the larger man standing behind him, camera phone rigged into a stabilizer already recording and focused on Sam. “This is Happy, we are researching paranormal phenomena. Nice claw marks.”

“Claw marks?” Sam repeats, dazed and confused. Tony nudges at the front door again with the toe of his shoe.

Sure enough, his front door is sporting claw marks. Right below the handle, like something had been trying to open the door and missed.

“Huh. That’s new.” Sam steps aside to let them in.

“So when did weird stuff start?” Tony throws his armful down on the kitchen bench and inspects an apple.

“How did you hear about my weird stuff?”

“I hear things,” he puts the apple down. Happy scoffs from his place against the wall. “Rhodney mentioned it.”

“Rhodney did?” Sam thinks on that for a few beats, “Tony _Stark?_ ”

“Yes? What?”

Okay. Sam feels his fists itch to correct Tony on a few of his more stupid comments, but looking at the man in the flesh pulls Sam short. He doesn’t know the guy. Sure he’s seen Stark on talk shows and across the news, repeatedly saying such ignorant things you would think Stark was trying to get himself hated by all of liberal America.

The man is shorter than Sam realised. He is in a red hoodie and washed, tired looking jeans. He is wearing glasses.

“Why are you interested in ghosts?”

“Oh come on, why is everyone so surprised? If they exist then just imagine the -” Stark fumbles over his own words, hands flying everywhere. “Look, you remember Captain America? You really think that guy was human? The way he just appeared and disappeared?”

Sam feels whiplash. Captain America? The World War Two solider? The man responsible for moving infinity billion dollars worth of kids toys?

“He was a test subject,” Sam dismisses. He had a Captain America toy as a kid. He also had a matching Gabe Jones one. There had been a kids cartoon show when he was young.

The Howling Commandos were an elite squad of ‘rescuers’ who ‘helped’ people from the comically harmless ‘bad guys’. It was all very stupid and kid-gloves.

“We didn’t have that sort of science. We still don’t. How did a guy like him come through the military in the 40’s? My Father believed he wasn’t human until his dying breath and like hell I’m gonna let that asshole remain the only one to gather solid scientific evidence of the existen-” again, Tony aborts his own sentence in favour of unpacking more equipment.

Sam watches the two men work.

“You want a cup of coffee or ah…”

“Yes, that would be great thank you,” Happy amicably replies.

-

They held the meeting in the backyard. Thankfully Sam was busy entertaining some guests who had showed up an hour ago, pottering about the kitchen and baking food.

At least, Steve assumed Sam was baking. Spices and smoke meant cooking, right?

He was still getting his head around modern human food.

“Steve,” Natasha pointed at him, then flicked her hand to hover beside the new woman who had teleported down with her. “Virginia.” Steve greeted her amicably enough. She looked very human like, even in her spirit form. No wonder she was a human realm specialist.

Virginia was taller than Natasha and possessed far longer hair in a coppering shade of pink.

“Please, call me Potts,” she laughed and settled a hand on her empty belt. She didn’t seemed to be carrying any weapons at all. Her eyes were scanning across the yard and assessing the house, not looking down at Steve as she talked. She had freckles all across her face and down her neck, even along her arms.

Steve wasn’t sure if she was purposefully dismissing him or honestly unawares of the snub. Natasha made to talk again, but Potts walked away from their little meeting circle towards the house.

Okay, unawares then. No one would wittingly dismiss Natasha like that.

“Oh, are you guys aware of the ghost hunters?”

“Ghost hunters?” Steve actually chuckled. “Humans don’t do that anymore.”

Steve instantly remembered he was talking to a human specialist.

“Not in the same way, no. But there are currently two in your house.” She walked a bit closer and frowned. “Is that.. ah, excuse me for a moment.”

Potts pressed herself up against the kitchen window and stared into the house.

“That’s Tony Stark, in there. I’ve worked multiple preventative missions on him in the past he, um, is quiet smart. A bit too close to figuring it all out for the higher ups to be comfortable with.”

She was blushing. “Why is he in your human’s house? Have you failed to be discreet?”

“No,” Steve snapped. “We’ve covered our tracks perfectly.” Potts just hummed and went back to looking through the window, careful not to touch the glass and fog it up.

“When was the last time either of you lived in the human realm?”

“Hell if I know,” Natasha replied quickly, arms crossed and looking put out.

“1945.”

Once the war was over, he had gotten out as quick as he could. Human wars were frightful. They were so defenceless, it was like sending children into cage fights. Two billion children just trying to survive.

But he needed to be there to suppress the demons a few military divisions had worked out how to summon. Idiots. As if the higher realms wouldn’t notice the sudden drain on their power.

Potts turns and finally looks at him.

“But that was all on the front-lines, wasn’t it?” Steve quietly nods. So she did know who he was.

“Well.” Pots straightens up and flattens down her skirt. “There is probably a million and one ways you’ve raised suspicion, then.”

Natasha rattles like a disturbed beetle.

“Fantastic. Fix it.”

Potts laughs in her face.

-

Bucky was in the backyard playing fetch with his master when the visitors knocked on the door.

They were a nice couple. Both pale skinned, which was unusual for this neighbourhood. The master talked amicably with them and led them into the backyard where Bucky was waiting, and seemed to be introducing them to him.

Strange. The couple were very interested in him, almost to the point of ignoring his master. He didn’t seem to mind, and handed the ball over to the woman.

They resumed the interrupted game of fetch. Bucky was a bit confused, but after an encouraging look from his master, he participated in the fetch game.

There were a lot of pats. He quite liked these new people. They asked a lot of questions about him too. They must like him as well.

Bucky felt proud. He was quite a good dog, wasn’t he? He was good at his job of guarding the shed. He was a good solider. High on all the attention, Bucky decided it was only natural to show off how scary he could be as well. They needed to know he was good at protecting.

They didn’t seem to like it.

“Man, you blew that big time,” his master told him once they left. “They’ve got three empty acres filled with trees. It would have been heaven. Silly dog.”

Bucky pants happily into his master’s hand.

He’s pretty happy right here.

Something is falling quickly from the sky. From the edge of his vision it looks like those bubbles children blow.

The shield-maiden from last night lands on the roof in a harsh drop that makes the roof tiles groan. The master jumps and looks around.

Bucky glares at her. She meant to do that.

She glares back.

She doesn’t know he is the Stray.

Bucky quickly tries to look baffled.

Her hand goes out, and he feels the thread of a teleportation wrap around his body.

_Calm down. Calm down. Don’t freak out. She isn’t going to hurt me. Probably._

Soundlessly he disappears from behind his master’s back into a secluded spot in the park. He recognises it because of the tall bamboo.

“Solider!” Roger greets. Instantly the tension drains from Bucky’s body. Okay. Cover not blown.

Someone else is with Roger. It’s a child, with strawberry hair and paint covered overalls. She catches him looking and waves a short, chubby, hand.

“Virginia Potts, Shield operative, human realm specialists.”

“Oh, cool,” why is she here? _What’s a human realm specialists?_

There is silence. Roger shifts his weight around like he is physically holding himself back from saying anything. Finally the hound’s resolve breaks.

“This is Solider,” Roger smile, then frowns. He looking between the two. “He is a tracker.”

“I very good tracker, from what I’ve heard,” Virginia compliments with an angelic look on her small face. “We are on our way to examine the location the stone is being held in now. Once Natasha catches up.”

Natasha busts in through the bamboo like a cursed demon summoned from Hell.

“Alright, golems in place. Let’s go,” her floating form shimmers and shifts into a red hair women, reasonably pretty, in very normal looking clothes for a middle-aged woman to be taking a walk in.

Two leashes materialise in her hands and she quickly clips them on to his and Roger’s collars.

“Is this necessary?” Bucky weakly protests, eyeballing the leash like it might (and could) transform into a sword or a snake at any moment.

“Yes,” the little girl says forcefully, slipping her hand into Natasha’s and pulling them all out from behind the bushes. Once they are on the park proper she start skipping around and hanging off Natasha’s arm like it’s a damn swing.

“You guys are all so terrible. Loose dogs are unacceptable on human streets now. People take notice and remember seeing you.”

“But they won’t take note of this?” Natasha asks through gritted teeth, one arm pulled down with the child, the other hand straining as Roger tries to double the pace.

“Nope,” Potts keeps on skipping.

Bucky and Natasha share a look. They both catch themselves after and go back to staring ahead and glaring.

Bucky thinks it will be weird if he didn’t ask about the Stray, so he clears his throat and open his mouth t-

“Shush,” Potts almost slaps him. A lone jogger passes them by as they all stare.

“He had headphones it,” Bucky argues. “It blocks their ears.”

“They don’t always have the sound turned on. They can hear perfectly fine with them in.”

Bucky begs to differ. His master is as deaf as a plank of wood once he’s got his in. Bucky is almost as deaf as a second, complimentary, plank of wood from just being in proximity to the things.

They make it to Galaxy Drive with marginal success. By this point Natasha is refusing to hold Potts hand or wrangle Roger. It’s just her and him, following after the girl and the golden dog (who is admittedly pulling a lot less for the child).

“I’ll be honest with you,” Natasha stays, still looking straight ahead. Bucky lifts his ears to show he is listening but doesn’t dare turn or talk. “We located and intercepted the Winter Stray last night. He wasn’t involved in the incident like we thought, but he did have intel. If you notice anything to do with him – anything – don’t tell Roger. Just come straight to me.”

And that was that. She pushed her sunglasses further up her nose and Bucky didn’t so much as twitch. If that was a test, it was hard to tell if he passed or failed.

They all huddled up next to the ward line as Natasha pretended to be re-lacing her shoes. Pepper took one look at it groaned.

Natasha almost lit up in delight.

“Very impressive,” she purred. Pepper sat down and pretended to be throwing a tantrum as Natasha worked some ancient Fey knows mystic jazz on it.

They hustled away once she gave the signal. Taking her sunglass off and put them back on again.

“Okay, so it is permanent resident permitting only but – but okay, it is also by invite.”

“So not unlike threshold rules?” Potts was back to swinging off the arm.

“Almost exactly like threshold rules,” Natasha took a dramatic pause as they neared a corner, making sure no one was unwittingly hidden around the other side before resuming. “But the invite doesn’t have to be offered by the ward caster themselves. All of the permanent residents have invite rite – they would have to if the thief wants the magic to go unnoticed by the humans that live there.”

“How many humans live there?”

“Three.”

“It’s almost too easy,” Natasha crackled.

Potts looked pained.

“Human hospitality hasn’t really… it isn’t really… do you have their names?”

“Gamora Zen, Peter Quill, Drax Destroy,” Natasha recalls the information like she is reading it off a page. Potts nods along to the names.

“Ages?”

“Twenty-one, twenty, twenty-six.” Pepper calms noticeably at the ages.

“I can work with that.”

They stop at a café and Potts hands human currency to Natasha to hand to the merchant behind the counter. They sit down at a table outside and Potts pulls a writing slate out of her overalls pocket.

It powers up and flickers with images. Bucky knows his master has something like it, but smaller and hand sized.

Natasha and Potts get to eat rich slices of cake while Bucky and Roger are forced to sit under the chairs and be mute. Roger makes sure to groan loudly every so often and sigh. After a while he settles down and just watches Bucky.

It is very unnerving. To know someone is so openly starting at you. Fifteen minutes later Roger gets up and lies down almost on top of Bucky, resting his head on Bucky’s paw. He is placed just right to whisper into Bucky’s ear without any of the café patrons seeing his mouth move.

“I can’t believe they’re just sitting down eating cake wh-” Roger’s starts to complain in soft whispers against Bucky’s neck. Potts little foot shoots out and kicks Roger’s in the soft part of his ribs.

Roger whines and lies back in a sad lump. But he does not move away.

Bucky sits patiently and tries not to look like he hasn’t been touched in ten years.

“Alright everyone, I’ve got a plan and it’s perfect,” Potts announces to the table, putting her hot chocolate down in its saucer.

The plan is simple.

Peter Quill is throwing a Halloween party at the house. It’s a public event. Potts knows for a fact the rite of invite works through the very informal and rather flimsy medium of the Facebook.

“All we need to do is make accounts, say we’re attending, and go tomorrow night. I'll do that, but you all need to individually clicked the 'going' button. I'll do that now. Oh, an I’ll organise costumes for everyone - you would all get it wrong.”

“Costumes?” Bucky asks just as Roger’s says “can’t I just come like this and say I’m dressed up as a dog?”

Potts utilises both legs to kick them at the same time.

-


	5. Over-Qualified and Under-Paid

**Over-Qualified and Under-Paid**

 

-

“Alright this is called an EP-GB-DH,” Tony whips out a heavy walkie-talkie looking Ghost Buster’s prop. “This is my baby and I don’t pull it out for just anyone.”

Happy gears up to make a joke.

“Ah, no,” Tony palms his hand across his ghost-hunting compatriot’s face. “What it does, is neutralise all spells cast in a mile radius. This is my secret weapon. They don’t know about it.” He shakes it in the air like a tube of M&M’s.

“Now, gentlemen, I have a theory-”

Rhodney takes a deep drink of his beer. He came over as soon as Sam texted _‘guess who’s in my house searching for ghosts’_.

That had been eight hours ago.

It is 1.a.m on a Sunday morning. Everyone should have gone home by now but this (Tony) was too interesting (car crash in motion) to leave. Well, Sam couldn’t really leave, though he could go to his room and shut his door.

Catch a nap under the watchful eye of about one hundred cameras and recorders. Tony could probably tell him many times he farts in his sleep.

“- a theory that our good friend Roger may react to this.”

As one they turn to look at the dog whose been locked outside. Too many precious cables to chew on, or, if you listened to Tony, ‘you don’t discuss the case before the suspect, Jesus you _amateurs’_.

“Not this again Tony,” Sam whines. Were-man. Were-dog. Whatever.

“It’s what the science says! Fridge for food, wardrobe for clothes, claw marks on the door – ah, hello? – you do realise the claws match your dog’s perfectly?”

“Roger is a normal sized dog.”

“A dog you’ve know for just a year.”

“A dog.”

“Well then you won’t mind if I do, then will you?” Tony very flamboyantly presses the large red button on the EP-GB-DH. Nothing happens, but the lights do flicker for a second.

A sound like static electricity snapping starts and grows, like a distant train chugging closer. Tony runs for the opened front door and pulls short dramatically on the front step, sliding his glasses off.

“Mother of God,” he whispers, as the three other men crowd in behind him, beers in hand.

All along the perimeter of Sam’s fence unreadable letters are glowing in the ground. Trendles of electricity passes between them, short circuiting and zapping.

As one, Sam, Rhodney, and Happy, down the rest of their beers.

Tony breathing in and embraces all of his college theater performances.

“This means,” he turns to them, dark in the midnight but haloed by the electrical zapping. “Someone _magical_ lives here.” The glasses are slapped back on his face. “Damn I am good.”

Tony pushes through them and hurries over to the back door, pulling it open and sticking his head through, swinging it side to side.

“Checks out. Roger has booked it.”

The three shoulder up behind him once again. This time Sam shoves past.

“Obviously this crazy shit is scaring the crap out of him.” Sam can just _feel_ Tony crossing his arms and huffing. “Roger! Here boy! Roger!”

Roger does not run gleefully into Sam’s arms.

Sam frowns.

“Roger?” He ventures further into the yard. The electrical charges have stopped now, but the lettering still glows. As Sam searches under ever rock and leaf for Roger, Tony starts taking photos and measurements of the humming letters.

“Holy shit man, did you see that?” Rhodney looks stricken. He comes up beside Sam and claps him hard on the back. “This is some proper witchcraft shit.  I mean… I didn’t really believe you, but now I… holy crap. Should I be saying holy crap? Do you think your ghost will hex me or something?”

Sam buries his head in his hands.

“Roger’s run away.” At one in the morning, his dog has bolted. This is the worst.

“Run away or realises the gig is up?” Rhodney whispers, arm still on Sam’s shoulders.

“What? You believe him? About the dog?” It is absurd. He would have noticed if his dog was acting odd. Something would have given it away. Sam just can’t phantom it.

It pains Sam to say this but…

“Roger is way too dumb to be anything but a dog, man.”

Rhodney raises his eyebrows and lifts his empty beer bottle up.

“You got anything stronger?”

-

“Argh, I don’t get it.” Steve rolls over onto this back, glaring up at the stars. “This is stupid,” he pouts.

“Not stupid.” Natasha only vaguely sounds like she is listening to him.

They are lying on a roof a street across from Soldier’s house. It is cold, but Natasha has brought warm-charmed sleeping bags alongside the binoculars and the cocoa.

They obviously can’t see anything, since Soldier is innocently tucked up sleeping in his kennel, but Natasha has the scope locked on his heat signature, waiting of the hound to _breathe_ wrong.

A better use of their time would be to watch the thief’s house, but no. Obviously not.

Distantly lights flash. Is someone letting off fireworks? Steve sits up and tries to peer around, but the commotion dies down.

Across the park and through the streets, sparkling white lights flash between some houses. Steve pulls out the communication device that links to Potts.

“Hey Potts, did you see that?” There is empty noise for a while as Steve waits for her to reply. Potts is staking out the thief’s house on her own (since it was a ‘lesser priority risk’) and Galaxy Drive was closer to the fading commotion.

In fact, _Steve’s_ house was quite close to the commotion.

“Someone just testing out their decorations before Halloween, relax,” Potts calmly says back. Steve sighs dramatically and throws himself back into his blankets.

“Ergh, Steve, shut up.”

“I just don’t get why _you_ have to watch _him_ when we have a much _more_ suspect stone thief just across the park.”

“Steve, I love you, but take a nap. You’ve humanized. It’s ruined your sleep schedule.”

Knowing what a dismissal sounds like, Steve turns over and curls himself into a ball, pulling the hood of the sleeping bag over his head.

“Fine,” he whines.

He feels much better when Potts radios in for Steve to take her position over. The spot is still warm from her presence. He methodically scans every inch of the thief’s house, counting the heat signatures.

_One. Human in bed._

_Two. Human looking in fridge._

_Three. Human in bed but on phone._

_Four. Rat chewing at a guitar amp cord, getting bored, then eating crumbs off a discarded textbook._

_Five. Hamster directly underneath human one’s bed._

_Six, seven, eight. Cockroaches._

Steve writes this all down in the ledger, neat handwriting taking over from Pott’s equally neat records.

_One. Human in bed._

_Two. Human looking in pantry._

_Three. Human in bed on phone._

_Four. Rat has now climbed from the textbook onto a ukulele and is now licked melted chocolate off the wood._

_Five. Hamster directly underneath human one’s bed._

_Six, seven, eight. Cockroaches._

Steve zooms in as far as the binoculars will allowed and glares at the hamster.

 _You ruined my holiday._ Steve thinks. _Now I ruin you._

The zoom is quite good on Pepper’s binoculars. Steve can make out their little round ears and cute pointy nose. He watches their hands move, obviously working away at something into the night.

They move across and pick something up, bring something over, hammer at something, rub their hands together, throw their head back and spread their tiny arms wide in what Steve can only assume is maniacal laughter.

_One. Human in bed._

_Two. Human pouring themselves a bowl of cereal._

_Three. Human put down phone for ten minutes, but picked it up again._

_Four. Rat is now on an empty bed and eat what Steve can only assume is a treasure trove of college student crumbs._

_Five. Hamster still plotting away._

_Six, seven, eight. Cockroaches._

Sunrise could not come soon enough.

-

Tony bursts into the lounge room with a laptop balanced precariously on one arm. Sam and Rhodney were watching a horrible horror movie. They put it on to laugh at, but the events of the night have them taking everything seriously

Why if the devil _could_ crawl out of a bathtub drain?

“I’ve caught your dog red-handed,” Tony crows, plonking the laptop down on the popcorn covered coffee table in front of them. On the screen is footage off one of the many cameras Tony installed across the property. Roger is stilling in the centre of the frame.

Tony slaps down on the play button and leans back, folding his arms into the hoodie.

Roger is sitting by the back door, calm and still, then the lights inside the house flicker and a glow from the backyard starts. The dog flinches, then disappears.

Not like, left. Like, _vanishes into thin air._

“Ergh… what the hell?”

On the television someone slips on a puddle of blood and cracks their head open.

“So the were-man theory was wrong, but the ghost theory is wrong too. He was just magic. Your dog was a spell.” Sam isn’t sure what to think. Relief? Loss? Anger? “Now I have multiple new, better, theories, so let’s get the whiteboard back out here and, Happy? Whiteboard? Please?”

-

Steve waits in one of many lavish but purposefulless rooms in Natasha's castle. Potts arrives through the grand doors in a flourish, brandishing bags of clothes.

Steve groans. It's obvious all she did was go digging through his personal belongings. 

She holds the blue, red, and white costume with a feral smile. Steve is pointedly not looking at it.

“I won’t transform into warrior form,” he informs her. Potts’s smile grows.

“Even better. The over-large look will work a charm.”

“No.”

He hates that thing. Hated being a puppet on stage. It was demeaning.

“I’m not touching it,” why dose he even still have it? He really needs to clean the chest out. Just because it is bottomless does not mean it’s a perfect trash can.

“Fine.” Potts doesn’t look disappointed. In fact, she looks like he just did what she wanted him to do.

“Luckily I have a backup.”

Luckily? With a sinking feeling Steve takes the bagged four piece suit. Only when he’s buttoning it up dose Steve realise he owns this outfit too.

He loved this suit. He used to wear it everywhere. Thankfully he had only grown a little bit since then, and the black material clung perfectly.

When he walked back out, Potts hummed and nodded like she had been the young man who cut the cloth back in 1867 Paris.

“It will do,” she couldn’t keep the grin off her face. “Here, I acquired a top hat and a walking cane.”

“That’s a bit over-board I think…” Potts shushed him.

“This is the Eve of All Saints. It’s all about exaggeration.”

Natasha had already donned her costume, a suit of armor he had seen covered in blood more times than he’d seen it clean. It was a bit strange to see it so polished and paired with a silky cape but… it was all about exaggeration, Steve supposed.

Steve walked back to the mirror located behind the changing curtain. He adjusted the bow-tie and morning coat and begrudgingly admitted he was looking forward to swanning around with a walking cane on the streets once more. If only there were more heaping piles of horseshit to accidentally bump arseholes into.

He wondered what Soldier was going to wear. Steve froze mid-checking his pockets (a few nineteenth century French coins and a flyer to a stage play - useless junk).

In order to dress Soldier up, they would need him to go human. If he went human, Natasha could identifying him ten thousand times faster, and if he refused, well.

“You planned this on purpose,” Steve wasn’t sure who he was accusing – Natasha or Potts. They must have schemed together like witches above a cauldron. He turns away from the mirror and marchs back into the main sitting room.

Except there is no one there to glare at, just a servant standing looking confused.

“I assure you I am not a man of plans,” The blonde haired man says.

“Where did they go?” Steve, also a blonde man, asks.

“Who?” Blondie looks around the many recliners and towering windows.

“The women who were sitting there,” Steve snaps his hand down at the purple couch they had just been on.

“I only just entered the room. I mean to speak with the Lady Natasha.”

“Argh, yeah? Me too.” Steve regards the servant. The man was large and wide, similar to Steve in warrior form. His clothing was that of a common servant guard – leather jerkin, thick trousers, weather-proof hooded cloak. “She’s always stranding me like this. Can you teleport?”

“I am capable of it.”

“Well then, let’s teleport to the Lady Natasha.”

“So we shall, my new friend,” blondie let off a dazzling smile.

Steve thought calling him a friend was a bit bold for a servant, but let is go without comment. He closed the distance, clutched hands, and then stood there waiting for the man to teleport.

They stood there holding hands for a while until Steve loudly cleared his throat.

“I must confess I do not teleport often. Father grounded me. Where exactly do you want me to take you?”

Oh for the Good Lord’s sake.

-

Bucky was eating breakfast when the shield-maiden and the human specialist arrived again. Although, it would be more accurate to call them a knight and a… pumpkin? Potts was back in child form and seemed to have donned a large fabric pumpkin, complete with a hat that resembled a stalk.

“Solider,” was the only warning he got before Natasha grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and teleported them out.

It wasn’t the normal yank of being moved. Bucky’s gut twisted as he felt the cling-wrap barrier of realm travel, holding his breath as Natasha forced his body to break through and land on the other side.

The other side was pleasant in appearance. Big sunny room with countless tall windows overlooking sprawling gardens.

“We are here to fit you into the costume to attend the party tonight,” Potts fussed happily, picking up some blue, white, and red skin. “I think it will look lovely on you. Now, you can go behind the curtain and shift into human form. We will see if it might fit.”

Bucky eyeballed everything around him at least twice before slinking behind the curtain. So caught up in the lush carpet and the million and one sitting chairs, he missed the way Natasha was reaching her hand out, ready to flood him with power and give him access to his other forms. He missed the way the women exchanged knowing looks when he went behind the curtain without comment.

He did not realise he had just confirmed a suspicion.

There was a large mirror behind the curtain. Bucky sat in front of it and gave himself a pep talk, his claws slipping over the human form and struggling to pick it up.

It felt like the form was stuck under a boulder. Or hooked on something. Bucky pulled harshly on it the more time went past, scared of keeping the girls waiting too long. He didn’t need them to think there was something wrong with him. Normal Hell-Hounds could transform at the drop of a hat. Bucky was a normal Hell-Hound.

The form broke free and he went slamming into it with a gasp. Bucky opened his eyes and _stared._

It was not what he expected. Everything about him was harsh and scary, but now he almost looked… sweet. Young. Short floppy hair and blue dopey eyes.

What the hell?

Bucky did a few turns before the mirror, jaw dropping at the sight of smooth golden skin. He was dressed in nothing but a pair of green trousers, rolled up to his knees. The hems were still a bit wet.

Bucky leaned down and touched the fabric, wondering if he could possibly remember what he had been doing to get them wet. Crossing a river? Hosing down something?

He walked back to the women. They stared at him. He crankily put his hands in his pockets and stared back.

“Wow, the attitude is way more evident now. No wonder you guys get along.” Natasha crosses her legs as she talks, threading her fingers together and sounding supremely bored. Potts picks up the costume and throws it at his chest.

“Now I _really_ want to see you in it.”

Bucky did his best with the outfit, but it took a while. It was a tiny bit big, slipping down over his eyes and roomy around his arms, but all in all it fit fine.

Once again when he emerged from behind the curtains, still fixing the cowl, the women were staring.

“Fuck _yeah,_ ” he expected it to be Potts, but when he looked up it was Natasha who was purring at him, looking entirely too devious for her own good.

-

“Um, where are we?” Steve let go of the servant’s arm and looked around. They appeared to be on some sort of mountain top.

“Who knows?!” The servant laughed, the sound echoing down the valley and bouncing back, making the man laugh more… with himself? “It seems the Lady Natasha is not here. She must be somewhere unreachable.”

Steve decided it was time to take a commanding tone with this idiot.

“No. She’s on the human realm,” the man instantly slowed in his laughter.

“Oh, that explains it then. I have not access the human realm in many hundreds of years, no doubt my sense of location is off."

“Yeah, I’m sorry what?”

“Father banned me after the Incident with all the fun Viking fellows and the mead. I would take us back to the household but I am notoriously terrible at directions.” Steve very nearly slapped himself on the forehead.

“I’m sorry, what is your name?” The man swaggered and smiled, attention re-directed as easily as one re-directs a puppy.

“Thor, Crown Prince of Asgard,” he proudly announced. Steve felt his heart sink. Not _this_ idiot.

The whistling of wind brought Steve’s attention to where they were and the hand Thor was still obliviously holding out for a hand-shake.

They _definitely_ planned this out.

-

_6.p.m, 31 st of October. Two hours before Peter Quill’s ‘HalloWEENNN’ party commences._

Bucky and Natasha are currently standing on the curb, arms crossed and staring past each other. Potts is up at the front door of a large blue house, charming a bag of sweets off an old woman.

She comes skipping back down the driveway, threading her hand with Bucky’s and pulling him on to the next house. Several small screaming humans come running past them, clutching their own hordes of scavenged riches.

“Is this necessary?” Bucky grumbles, shooting wide-eyed looks at every third kid. Sometimes they don’t even look _human._

“We have time to kill before the party starts, and we need to wait around for Steve to catch up, apparently Thor ended up in New Zealand. Anyway, I’ve wanted to do this for years so, yes, this is necessary.”

Natasha grabs at his bicep and leans in. She has extended her fangs tonight, and his hair stands on end at the feel of those things coming at him.

“Steve is Roger’s name, by the way.”

Bucky almost fumbles over his response.

“Okie Dokie.”

As Potts leaves to increase her stolen horde of treats, adult humans in more toned down outfits approach him and Natasha. Bucky freezes.

“Hello, the weather turned out perfect for tonight, didn’t it?”

When it becomes clear Bucky isn’t going to step in and save her, Natasha squares her shoulders and replies.

“Not too cold, not too wet, can’t complain,” the guy laughs like she said something witty.

“Damn straight dude.”

Two hip height humans come scurrying up to the man. One is dressed as a witch and the other is simply wrapped in as much tin foil as humanly possible.

“Clint, the girls want me to join them trick-a-treating,” the witch whines, taking a handful of the man’s red cloak and tugging on it. The tin-foil boy crosses his tin-foil arms, scratching and rustling in anger.

“Good for you! Off you go then,” she scurries away to a waiting gang of girls, barely avoiding the tin-foil boy’s shove. She kicks him in the shins.

“You suck,” tin-foil boy shouts. The gang of girls giggle and run off once the witch joins their closed ranks.

“Aw, Pietro, kicked out of the girls club?” Clint is laughing at the angry boy, entirely unconcerned. “I hate to say this, but I don’t think it would have worked out anyway.”

Potts comes stumble-running back towards them, almost weighed down with her sweets. Bucky sees his opportunity.

“Hey Potts,” he greets, crouching down to her level and ruffling her vegetable stem hat. Potts squints her eyes distrustfully at him. “I hear you can double your candy intake by partnering up with another kid. You can carry more stuff, you know? It’s what all the other kids are doing.”

Clint catches on pretty damn quick for a human.

“Hello, I’m Clint. I’m dressed as Robin Hood. What are you dressed as?” Potts looks down at herself, as if to check she is still wearing a giant pumpkin.

“A pumpkin,”

“Wow!” Clint amazes appropriately. “That’s really cool. This is Pietro, his sister just dumped him for some friends from school. Aww.” Clint pulls a sad face and blinks at the tin-foil boy. “He is very good at getting chocolates.”

Potts nods and takes in the blushing boy, staring at his shoes.

“Alright,” she shoves her bag at the boy’s shiny chest. “You can carry those. I haven’t done the other side of this street yet so we’re going to have to hurry.” Potts starts walking off, the boy trailing with a confused expression. “What are you dressed as?” she asks, clipped and busy like a harassed bank manager.

The boy stammers his answer too quiet for even Bucky to pick up.

“Wow. She’s a really confident kid,” Clint mutters.

Once again, Bucky sees his opportunity.

“She’s just recovered from a bout of violent diarrhoea so she literally has no shits to give anymore,” he waves his hand casually in the air, his other arm crossed and tucked into the crook of his elbow. He is still getting used to having two normal hands. He can _feel_ things.

Natasha dryly says _“what”_  as Clint says _“I feel that”_   just as someone says from behind Bucky _“who had diarrhoea?”_

Bucky turns and gets to watch as a handsomely over-dressed man crosses the rest of the road and joins their circle.

“Steve,” Natasha greets, and only then does the man’s face click into place.

Holy shit. He is standing way too close.

Steve is actually standing quite far away from Bucky, but that doesn’t matter.

“Natasha,” Steve grunts back, a deep scowl on his face. He looks upset. Blue eyes flicker about the circle of adults, landing on Bucky and staying there. Staring.

The eyes go down the costume and then back up. Slowly.

“So they put you in _that?_ ”

Bucky thinks it is pretty evident they put him in this. He nods.

“I think it’s really good. It almost looks like the real thing, where did you get it dude?” Clint blunders into the middle of the conversation, blind as a bat to the way Bucky is panicking and Steve is watching like a prowling cat.

Neither answer. Once again Natasha steps up to the plate.

“I let him borrow it,” she makes it clear she won’t say any more than that.

Potts and tin-foil boy have just made their first successful door raid. Potts makes sure to glare at them as she wonders back up to the sidewalk.

“Look at them go,” Clint says, sounding slightly choked up. “Like a perfect little roast dinner.”

Natasha laughs. The laughter is quick and fast, sounding almost as surprised to be there as Bucky is to hear it. He knows Clint is probably thinking _roast pumpkin_ , but Natasha is probably thinking _roast children_.

Or not. He really dose not know what Natasha gets up to.

-

_8:20.p.m, 31 st of October. Half-an-hour since Peter Quill’s ‘HalloWEENNN’ party commenced._

Steve glares. He is glaring a lot tonight. Glares are good for hiding how he feels.

Natasha is the first to test the ward barrier since she ‘can take it’ unlike ‘you babies’.

Steve glares, barely resisting the desire to wack her with his walking cane.

They all hold still as she walks over the property boundary. Natasha pauses for only a moment to smirk over her shoulder before sashaying on into the house.

“That women got _legs,_ ” Clint whistles. Steve shuts his eyes and counts to ten. Why is he still here?

“Clint,” Steve starts to say, but is saved by the man trying to follow Natasha. When he’s just about to step over where the ward is, he pauses.

“Well, have a fun night guys. I’ve got to go keep an eye on the twins. See ya around?” Clint turns so fluidly it is almost a pirouette.

“Yeah, sure,” he waves at Clint’s retreating cape, frowning.

“I think for humans the ward just discourages them,” Solider murmurs from beside Steve, also watching Clint cross the road.

Steve had been doing a good job of pretending Solider wasn’t there so far. Now it was just them.

“Well, I suppose that solves that. Let’s go,” he offers his arm before he can think it through, muscle memory from when he was last buttoned into this suit coming back.

Soldier snorts, Steve starts sweating. He’s rapidly trying to figure out how he can play this off (just reaching for his pocket? Making a joke?) when the man links his arm with Steve and hauls him over the line.

“Yes, let’s go _sir_ ,” Steve relaxes faster than a hot bath at that voice. For the first time, he willingly looks over at Solider and his bright grey eyes and dusty lips.

“Certainly, _Captain_ ,”

The lips twist into a lopsided smile.

_Fuck._

The party was not in full swing right now. Potts had told them to expect this. Teenage humans of the decade had taken the art form of ‘fashionably late’ and turned it into a three year college degree.

The night was dark, however. The host was of the opinion that the less light and the more candles, the better his party. Natasha extinguished them with a hand wave as she swaggers through the open front door.

No one was around. All the residents were in the backyard, dragging cords around and assembling a drum kit. A few guests had shown up, but they mingled in groups of twos and threes, too sober to be social.

Steve and Solider follow Natasha into a bedroom as casual as you like.

Natasha flings the bed to the opposite wall with yet another wave of the hand. Steve hurries to close the door behind them.

“Dose _subtle_ mean anything to you?” He barked.

Steve wasn’t letting that get in the way of proving his innocence however, and stretched the walking cane back before bringing it down right above the exact spot of the hamster’s late night scheming. The floor boards shattered under the impact, and Natasha had her gauntlet-ed hands in there instantly, pawing around and trying to grab him before he knew what was happening.

“Shit,” she said, resting back on her heels.

“That’s not good,” he carefully crouches down beside her and peers under the floor.

The dark mouth of a tunnel greets him.

“I can see him,” Natasha growls. Her eyes are glowing white with other-vision.

“Where?”

“Four meters below the kitchen. It will be easier to go through the tunnels.”

Steve looks at the hamster sized tunnel, back to Natasha, and then back to the tunnel.

“I’m not really a fan of the dark,” he squeaks just as she slaps her hand on him and shrinks him perfectly down.

“You too Solider,” Natasha’s voice rolls like thunder above him, and her footsteps shake the floor. Steve runs across the remaining floor boards, jumping down into the ground and concrete mix that is the tampered foundation slab.

Steve wrinkles his nose and looks around. It smells like rodent. Gross. He sadly looks down at his suit.

Natasha and Solider join soon after, Solider looking a bit wobbly with the size change. The gravity shift takes a bit to get used to the first time.

“You boys should probably go wolf,” Natasha advised, summoning a lantern and peering into the tunnel. Just down from the mouth it separated into two different paths.

Steve did so without question, happy to save his precious suit. Solider did not.

“I don’t really…” Soldier mumbles, “…I haven’t used that form in a while, is all. It will be unreliable.” He was biting his nails and painfully avoiding looking at them.

Natasha’s head swivels like an owls, going from Solider to Steve.

_Told you._

Steve tilts his head and glared back.

_Don’t give me that look._

She quirks a single left eyebrow.

_I’ll give you any damn look I please._

Natasha turns away to levitate and place the bed back over them again, plunging them into darkness besides the orange glow of her lantern.

Soldier’s quiet voice whispered from beyond the light.

“Can’t you just grow my hound form a little bit so I match?”

Steve shifts nervously on his feet. _Please don’t be hiding some terrible dark secret. Please. Let it be something stupid and small._

“You won’t have nearly the same power and endurance as the wolf form,” the rebuttal was said darkly. Harshly.

“It will do,” Solider affirmed, not backing down under Natasha’s intimidation.

“It will not,” she stepped towards him until the lantern light glows across his masked face. He did not look intimidate. In fact, he took a step forwards Natasha, using his height to tower over her.

“Then summon me a firearm.”

“A firearm?”

“I am trained to use them.”

Steve could just feel Natasha thoughts.

_Steve you are an idiot. Steve he is clearly up to something. Steve I want to kill him before he kills me. Steve I hate you._

She grunts and summons a firearm. An old single shot musket with a knife mounted on the barrel.

“What the hell is that?”

“A firearm.”

“Well, can you get a better one?”

“This is all I have,” Natasha pushes the musket into the Soldier’s America covered chest. He dose not move to take it.

“Fine,” Solider shrugs his whole body in a way that forces the musket off his chest. Natasha’s back straightened in victory too early, because his next words were: “a sword will do just as well.”

She conjures a small, rusty, pommel-less one. Soldier’s head lolls to one side and his eyelids fluttered.

“Let me guess, this all you have?” He drawled, a hidden accent flavouring the edges of his voice.

“Yes,” Natasha glares. Soldier glares. Steve, for once, is not glaring.

That voice. He couldn’t possible pick it, but he knew it. Somehow, he _knew it._

Solider takes the sword in hand. Just as Natasha releases it, he lets it drop. It lands in the dirt with a dull thud. Soldier wordlessly locks eyes with Natasha for four whole beats before turning and walking into the tunnel.

“Left or right?” He called, thighs and backside looking entirely too good in the Captain America stage costume.

Natasha mouthed _‘I’ll kill him’_ as she breezed back Steve, stalking after her new favourite person.

She couldn’t fool Steve.

The rest of the journey was spent in silence. It wasn’t exactly the time for chit-chat even if they had been all getting along.

In time the squeaking of metal and pattering of paws starts to echo along the walls around them. Natasha flashed a few hand signs to Steve.

_Us. Attack. Fast. No cover._

Okay, so she obviously thought the hamster wasn’t going to be an issue to over-power, no matter how many spins of the hamster wheel the guy did daily.

She summoned her favourite poisoned sword and spirited past Soldier (giving an unnecessary shove) and around the last corner. Steve followed in her wake (giving a noticeably wide berth around Soldier).

The hamster was indeed on a hamster wheel. He was large and chubby, with lumpy growths along his jaw line. He was a black colour, almost purple.

“Ah, finally I have visitors!” He booms in his squeaky little hamster voice. “Behold, for years I have toiled away in cruel cages and under the floors of humans, but soon I will break free and it will be the humans who toil under me!”

Natasha hurls the sword. It pierces the hamster. His body explodes into a cloud of bubbles.

“I will bring balance to the world!” The hamster resumes his speech, giving away his position behind a pile of horded Fruit Loops. Her sword slices right through his head, but yet again his body disappears in bubbles.

Silence.

Long, uninterrupted, silence.

Natasha stands stiffly in the middle of the cavern, then slowly turns to them.

“You boys got any ideas?”

Steve could almost hear Soldier’s spine cracking as he straights.

“Well, Natasha, I am glad you asked.”

Soldier’s plan works like a charm. After destroying much of the strange gear and horded foods in the cavern, the hamster reappears, a bit out of breath.

“Hey, that’s my stuff!”

Soldier makes a show of crunching the last Fruit Loop in his fist.

“Your in a lot of trouble, Thanos,” his voice is completely changed. Authoritative and deep. “Your going to find yourself before a Fey Court one way or another, so I suggest the easy way. The Fey look favourably on rodents who make their lives easier.”

The hamster hunkers down, watery eyes narrowing.

_“You,”_

“Me.”

“Where is that back stabbing raccoon? Too scared to show his face? That would be right.” Solider makes a show of thinking on the questions and looking around.

“As of now Rocket should be, hmm… leaving with your precious stone. If he gets it over the wards, you lose all your powers. Is that right, or is that me just reading too much into this?”

The hamster snarls, lips peeling back to reveal his four long teeth.

“I'll end you,” he then teleports away, but this time Natasha was prepared. While focused on Solider, Thanos had completely missed the Fey Lord flying and landing on his back, as small as a flea.

There is a brief moment of stillness after Thanos portals away, Natasha gone too, where Steve and Soldier wait to feel the threads of Natasha pulling them to her new location.

“Do you think that worked well?” Solider turns to Steve and asks, voice soft and shy again. Steve licks nervously at his own nose.

“He knows you?”

Solider smiles a humourless smile.

“I’ve been in this neighbourhood a while.”

Natasha jolted them to her. The new location is still underground, but it is closed off. No tunnels leading in or out. Thanos had built this so it could only be accessed by people who already knew it was here.

The hamster jumps at their appearance, caught in the act of patting his paws reassuringly over the pink infinity stone.

“Gotcha,” Steve grins wolfishly, throwing himself at the slightly larger beast.

“It will take more than that to kill me!” He squeaks, scurrying around and keeping the stone between him and Steve in a game of chicken.

A boot materialises in the cave, squishing Thanos under the heel. The earth around them crumbles and collapses as whoever is attached to the boot fights against the earth they have just found themselves entombed in.

The press of earth down over Steve’s body crushes the air from his body. He tries to scramble and dig, but it’s like being frozen in tar. Like having a million litter-mates sitting on top of you.

Again, the roots of Natasha’s magic yanks at him.

-

The embrace of Natasha’s teleportation is starting to feel too familiar.

Mid-rescued from being buried alive, Bucky can’t find it in himself to care. The annoying woman seems to have simply thrown them high above her. Bucky floats in weightlessness for a second before he starts to fall, getting slapped by a few grass blades on his way down to the ground.

Bucky gasps in fresh air, the shock of the impact jerking his lungs open.

Oh thank the Lord’s _fresh air._ He closes his eyes and leans his head back into the dewy ground, ripping the cowl off his head and sucking in deep lungfuls of air.

Steve has landed not far away from him, managing it a bit more gracefully in his monster form. He grunts and collapses under the grass the same as Bucky, but freezes half way

“Bucky?”

Bucky blinks his eyes open at the night sky and the canopy of grass blades, slightly concussed.

“Huh?” He grunts intelligently, unfurling his limbs out into a star-fish. “Yeah, what?”

 

 -


	6. Reunited and it feels so good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter ;)
> 
> Steve/Bucky romantic moment

**Reunited and it feels so good**

 

-

**Halloween**

Virginia Potts was having a good night. Not only has she swiped her own weights worth of candies from the local home owners, she has also managed to annoy Tony Stark.

At 9.a.m Clint and the twins were on the path home, Virginia in tow. Clint kept throwing her worried looks and asking if she knew her way home, and if she wanted to be dropped off, or use his phone to call her parents?

Virginia’s parents were a phoenix and a warlock with one hell of a fire fetish. It would be very hard to contact them via human system phone.

“I am fine Mr. Clint Sir. I live just one street over,” she assured the man. Clint paused while adjusted the plastic bow over his back.

“We live just one street over too. Marvel Terrace, right?” Huh. Small world.

Clint and the twins trundled down the street and stopped in front of the cute green house next to Steve’s human’s house.

 _Convenient,_ Virginia smirked.

“This is where I am staying,” she announced, pointing at Sam’s house. “My uncle is visiting his friend, and I don’t live anywhere with neighbours so…” as she talked with the Barton’s she could see Tony and Rhodney fussing around with a radar on the roof, Sam drunkenly falling asleep against the ladder he was meant to be holding up.

“Oh, well in that case you’re welcome to come in and keep playing. Do you guys want to put on a scary movie on and fall into sugar comas on the couch, huh?” Clint spread his arms out wide and beamed with glee at the idea. Pietro rolled his eyes. Wanda held Clint’s gaze like it was a staring contest.

“Argh, hang on, we have that thing with Grandma tonight. I’m sorry Potts, it was lovely meeting you. Say goodbye to Potts guys!”

“Bye,” Wanda was already walking into the house.

“See ya,” Pietro was far more polite, but he was still talking to his shoes.

Virginia softly sniffed and turned her nose up at the human twins, cuddling her bags of goodies tight and marching off. Human children were terribly boring, and they never seemed to take a liking to Virgina. It really was a no-love-lost situation.

She marched straight through the opened front door and into the lounge room. Happy was on the couch watching camera feeds, and jumped ten feet into the air when Virginia let the heavy bags fall onto the floor with a bang.

“Fuck – ah, fudge, ah, hello? Are you lost?” Virginia put her hands on her wide Pumpkin hips and levelled Happy with her best _are you shitting me_ face.

“Happy,” she snapped, “you have seen my child form on multiple occasions.” Virginia roaming one hand above her body like a magician painstakingly revealing a dove.

“Pepper!” Happy screamed. He then fumbled for a walkie-takie. “We have a Code: Salt. I repeat, we have a Code: Salt in the lounge room.”

Tony’s voice came over the comms device almost instantly, far away for the first few words and then loud and close.

“Do not let that little Leprechaun out of _your sight_ ,” he spat. “On my way down now. Sam!” There was a pause. “Where’s the ladder?”

Virginia could see through the camera feeds that Sam has fallen asleep, and the ladder was now laying across a few mismanaged flower bushes.

Huffing, she lifted herself onto the couch and picked up the remote. Her pumpkin costume lifted up around her shoulders and neck a bit, but Virginia ignored it, aiming for dignity.

She flicked through the channels until she landed on something bloody and violent.

By the time Tony and his befuddled men appeared in the lounge (preferably to fall at her feet) the movie was in the middle of a very graphic sex scene. Happy looked uncomfortable.

Roger’s Sam visibly back tracked.

“Should she be watching that?”

Virginia slowly blinked at him.

“I am nearly three hundred years old.”

“Ah ha!” Tony clapped his hands together, spinning to Happy. “Write that down in her file.” He turned back to Virginia, hands waving beseechingly. “Peps, darling, my favourite soul-eating Gremlin, what brings you here on this fine night?”

“I am a Leprechaun, then I’m a Gremlin?” It is almost sorrowful how Tony lights up in excitement at the subject being brought up. He’s been trying since April to figure out _what_ she is exactly.

“What are you?” He certainly doesn’t mince words. How unrefined.

Virginia decided to recycle a joke from earlier in the night and made a big show of appearing confused and looking down at herself.

“A pumpkin?”

Tony’s temper visibly snapped.

“You are the bane of my life.”

Sam raises a hand in the back, looking for all the world like he really thinks they need a teacher to take over this class.

“And who is she exactly?”

“Just some annoying little spy the ghost version of the FBI have ghosting me. Me, being ghosted by a ghost, can you believe it?”

“I’m a ghost now?” Virginia noisily unwraps a sweet.

“What are you?” Tony snaps back.

The woman on the TV gets decapitated mid-sex act.

“Oh puh-lease,” Virginia snaps at the screen. “That blood splatter is pitiful!”

“As much as I would love to pick apart b-movies with you, I’ve got a hunch you are a hmmmm. Immortal vampire child.”

“Am I now?” Virginia fiddled with the stem of a lollipop like it was a cigarette.

In the movie, the woman’s rolling head continues to scream, eyes blinking in fright.

Half an hour later the boys have all collapsed down on the couch or on the mat across the floor, shouting and throwing insults at the screen, eating away at Virginia’s hard stolen candies like filthy parasites.

“Hey Peps, throw us some of that sherbet stuff.” Virginia throws it at Happy’s head. Forcefully.

Sam on the other hand is passed a bag of smarties with a smile. He had spared her a bottle of very satisfactory human alcohol. What a generous human. She can see why Steve keeps him around,

“So you know anything about my dog?” Sam asks out of the blue, munching down on all the red smarties first.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Virginia calmly lies, leaning back into the couch and casual taking a sip of beer. Tony elbows her in the pumpkin-ribs in his rush to point assumingly at her face.

“That’s your lying face,” he observes like a Bonafede genius. “You _so_ do know about the dog.”

“Boys, this isn’t even my _real_ face.”

They all lapse into quiet as one of the characters loudly crashes their car off a cliff.

Off to one side, Rhodney frowns and blinks at her, eyes glassy with alcohol.

“Wait what?”

Tony loudly cracks a lollipop between his jaws.

“The brakes were cut,” he explains. “Honestly, it is entirely possible to drive without brakes. I mean, what the fuck is the hand brake for? All you have to avoid is going over forty miles and downhill, I mean, it doesn’t take a genius to just feather the accelerator.”

The sleeping potion she had put all over the candies works well, and by 10.a.m the men are passed out. Tony is the one who takes the longer, lecturing her on magnets and not noticing how his friends were dropping off into naps like flies. Virginia goes over to the fridge, fixes herself a glass of chilled water, and waits for the stone-hunting trio to return.

One hour later, they finally return.

Natasha prowls up to the house first, a bound hamster hanging limp from her fangs. Thankfully she is in her feline form, otherwise this would have looked quite comical.

The Fey Lord spits the hamster out like a way-ward tuff of hair.

“Criminal contained and neutralised, ready for transport to the court.”

“Fantastic,” Potts scoops the concussed hamster up and pops him into a handheld wooden box, complete with anti-magic locks and unbreakable seals. There are only a few small holes in the box to allow airflow and minimal light. “Finally, an easy assignment,” Potts chats as she puts the finishing touches to the security runes. “It’s a pleasure to work with professionals for once who don’t triple the trouble they are there to stop in the first place. Honestly, some men.”

Natasha’s red cat eyes shift off to the side, avoiding eye contact.

“You’ve spoke a bit too soon there, Potts.”

-

**Halloween**

Thor was trying his best. Father had just finished telling him to be more responsible and accountable when Lady Natasha contacted him regarding a meeting. He had promptly made his way out of the pool he had been floating in on a large pink flamingo in and appeared on her grounds. Then called his clothes onto his body upon seeing the looks he was receiving from the staff.

The servants told him Lady Natasha was in the West Wing sitting room, so he went there. Lady Natasha was not there – apparently she had just left. Thor accompanied the lad in the room to find the Lady Natasha, congratulating himself on being a _charitable_ and _friendly_ prince.

They had ended up on a very chilly mountain top. The views where phenomenal and Thor longed to explore, but the lad insisted on getting back.

It was not, ah… easy. It seemed he had jumped into the human realm thanks to his contact with the lad, his power and presence lending Thor the masking he needed to beat the Thor-ban in place on the human realm.

Unfortunately Thor was struggling to get back into the higher realm, like a fly making it into the fridge. Every attempt bounced him into increasingly more and more remote parts of the human’s adorable world.

Under the blazing heat of a desert sun, the lad informed Thor this wasn’t getting them anywhere and gave him a human address. Thor managed to get them there with average accuracy. Upon recognising his surroundings the lad ran off and left Thor to his own devises.

There seemed to be a party going on, so Thor struck up greetings with the locals and joined in on the revelry. Some handful of hours later Thor was in someone’s house, downing small glasses of bitter drink to the chanting of a young-adult crowd.

They all broke into screams when he finished the last one, and Thor roared at the ceiling in triumph, though he did not know what the exact nature of the game had been.

It was while he was mid-air, cannonball style, descending on another pool that Thor remembered why he had disentangled himself from his mangos and ice-cream and pink flamingo in the first place. Before his toes could hit the cold water of a Washington autumn, Thor called upon his clothes (see he was learning!) and attempted to teleport to Lady Natasha once more.

For a second Thor felt his heart sink, assume he had failed to teleport properly yet again. Finding one’s self-buried up to their waste in the ground could do that.

But that was not the case, Thor discovered, as Natasha appeared before him just as something small bit down on his calf.

“Lady Natas-ow!” He squirmed and heaved his mightiest best to get himself out of the ground.

“Thor?” The Lady Natasha queried. They appeared to be in a thin lane of neglected lawn sandwiched between a house and a tall fence. There was something Thor assumed to be a meat drying rack attached to the house’s wall.

Thor crawled free of the ground and patted himself down the best he could before straightening, flinging his cape over his shoulder, and clearing his throat.

“Lady Natasha, I received your notice to meet. What seems to be the problem?”

There was a – totally natural and normal, Thor assures – pause. The Lady had called upon the Prince, and Thor took his princely duties seriously. Since this morning. When Father threatened to take the bi-frost away if he didn’t apply himself more to the realm.

“Well since you are here, Thor, make yourself of use. I am currently pursuing a devious criminal.” Thor lit up at the words. Yes! The best kind of duties. “He is a small black hamster, and I believe you just stood on him when you appeared.”

“That may explain the sharp pain in my left calf,” Thor said jovially, lifting said leg up to inspect. Amongst the (surprising) amount of blood, there was a black hamster, still biting admirably down just above where the strong leather of Thor’s boots stopped.

Thor went to grab the creature, and he jumped, racing off around the corner of the house faster than those stocky little legs had business moving.

“You should have gone for the head!” A squeaky voice screamed on the wind. At least, Thor assumed that was what was said, as it was hard to understand such a high-pitched and winded voice. Natasha leapt after the criminal, landing on four black paws and giving chase around the corner.

Thor summoned a darker outfit, hoping to match the theme, and thundered off after the quick creatures.

He followed the cat following the hamster into a semi-crowded backyard. He bumped into a girl dressed up as some kind of bug, knocking her straight into a man taller and broader than Thor, who also went flying from the small and gentle collision Thor had unfortunately brought upon the human.

“What the?” Someone asks to his right. “Who are you?” Thor turned to the man, who was currently sitting on an… affordable looking plastic chair, a guitar in hand.

“I am Prince Thor, God of Thunder,” he held out his hand in greeting, but the man did not take.

“Yeah, don’t know him, buddy. Lame.” Ah, truly the mortal humans were such funny and insignificant creatures.

“And who might you be, sitting man?” Thor looked down on the human, who promptly stood up.

“Star-Lord,” he flicked the collar of his floor length red robe and played a few horrendous notes on the guitar. The man’s voice was noticeably rougher.

“A person of mystery to me as well, I am afraid. Shorter man,” Thor tacked on that last bit just because. A woman painted in green came up to them, candied apple half-eaten in hand.

“Beautiful maiden, did you happen to see which way a black cat went, just before? I was following it…” The Green Maiden smiles at him, but before she could say anything the shorter Star-Lord human wedged himself almost against Thor’s chest.

 _This is a very forward flirtation method,_ Thor thought before he saw the way the short human was sneering.

“Oh ha ha ha, running around after some pussy are we? Calling my African-America friend black, are we? Well let me tell you something my poorly dressed pal, this is my house, and if you think you can swagger into a private party and keep your stupid method acting beard on, you’ve got another thing coming.” Thor was taken aback, and leaned away from the short human.

“Are you mocking me?” He asked in disbelief, unassured what else could be happening.

“Are _you_ mocking _me_?” Star-Lord batted back.

“Are you _mocking me?”_ Thor was struggling to believe it. He was a worshipped deity last time he was here. How far had human kind fallen in his absence? This was horrifying.

Before much more of an altercation could grow, the lad from before came up between them.

“Thor,” he muttered, low and full of warning. “All that tequila is catching up to you.” The lad then put a hand on Thor’s bicep and turned to the Star-Lord. “I’m sorry, he is my cousin visiting from Australia. He was home-schooled. He is also drunk. Whatever he said he meant it in the most innocent way possible. Come along Thor.”

Thor let himself be lead away only this once. Those nails were really digging into his muscle. Once they were out of human earshot the lad started talking frantically.

“Where’s Natasha? Where did the hamster go?”

Thor threw his hands up into the air, unable to believe this.

“That was what I was inquiring about with the revellers!” Thor noticed another man was leaning in the shadow of the house, made aware of his presence only when the man pushed off the wall and walked towards them.

“Go dog?” The man asked, gruff and curt. The lad nodded.

“Keep yourself out of trouble Thor,” the lad said before switching down into the form of a golden hunting companion. Thor knelt down and immediately started patting the gorgeous animal.

“Argh, what are you doing,” the hound asked him. Thor scoffed. It was very obvious what he was doing. The other man assumed another hunting companion form, and Thor was momentary torn before he remembered he happened to possess _two_ hand for just this kind of emergency situation.

The dark hound shielded and seemed half way to biting him, but Thor did not worry. His skin was like steel anyway.

“Okay, well, um, we have work to do,” the lad then twisted and slipped out of Thor’s reach, the dark hound following suit.

“Bucky, maybe you should stay with Thor and keep an eye on h-”

“No.” The dark dog answered quickly. There was a brief moment of intense eye contact before they finally ran off.

Thor waited in his crouched position for awhile, breathing and waiting for someone to come up and slap him on the back. All around him he could hear the sounds of merry-making, yet here he was, abandoned.

Something hummed and called to him from the massive dirt piles that Thor had originally pulled himself free from. He went over to investigate, hands digging through the poor dusty soil as the humming inside his head got louder.

His fingers brushed against something warm and smooth and pink. An infinity stone? What was it doing here? In the ground? Bizarre.

As one of the few beings who can create and break infinity stones with his bare hands, Thor decides logically the best thing to do with a carelessly discarded stone is to break it apart before it falls into the wrong hands. He pushes his thumb into it with all his might, the surface of the stone finally cracking and caving in like a soft candy.

The intense magic contained inside it releases into the environment with a puff. Thor feels a bulk of it hit against his body, bringing lighting to his skin. Ah, perhaps he stands a chance of making it back home now with the boost of infinity power.

Thor looks beseechingly up at the night clouds and hopes for home. It was probably just going on dinner time now and his mother would be terribly cross if he was late to the table.

Thankfully, it did just the trick, and Thor dropped the destroyed shell of the infinity stone on top of his dresser with a click before hurtling down the stairs to the waiting smell of dinner.

-

**Halloween**

Rocket is tactical support tonight. Bucky called it ‘back-up’, Groot said it sounded like ‘side-kick duties’. As if.

Rocket looks back down the scope of his liberated paint ball gun. _As if_ he was going to listen to an enchanted _tree._ House mate or not… well, Rocket’s _actual house_ or not, Groot didn’t know what he was talking about.

Rocket stays on the roof of a neighbouring house and continues to watch for commotion. Bucky and his party had disappeared into the house about fifteen minutes ago. Something would definitely be happening by now.

They might need _tactical support._

Rocket can’t cross the wards, but his paint balls certainly can. With all the modifications, the balls can hit with enough force to knock a hamster out cold.

He is on the wrong side of the house to see the man appear in the ground like a rose bush, or see the cat-rat chase begin.

Rocket does recognise Bucky’s hound form however, streaking out along the fence line after a golden retriever. Sliding the gun into the holster on his back, Rocket scurries on after them along power lines and gutters.

They end up in some random neighbour’s yard. It looks and sounds like mayhem. A black cat is yowling and ducking around an impressive collection of potted plants, pulling them out and shattering them against the cement patio. A blonde lady in blue pajamas is trying to brush the cat away from her flower collection with a broom.

Bucky and his fellow dog break into the back-yard at a flat run. The woman takes one look at them catapulting towards her and leaps on top of the outdoor table.

There is a whole lot of screaming and shouting involved as the dogs start thrashing aside all the meticulous pots alongside the cat. Something breaks from underneath a cracked terracotta and makes a flying leap for the woman, scrambling up a chair and joining her on the table. She screams and utilises the boom with frankly outstanding form.

The small creature is hit dead on. The woman then wacks him off the table like a hockey puck. The cat goes after it, secures it in her maws, and dashes off with tail held high. The dogs follow suit.

Rocket wonders if he should try consoling the young woman, but that might be the straw that breaks the camel’s back. She seems to be holding it together alright, still glued to her table and casting fugitive glances around.

He re-joins the animals between two parked cars. He drops stealthily down from a tree onto the roof of one of those two cars, smirking as they all jump.

“Hey guys, how did the hunt go?”

At the sound of his voice the hamster resurrects. Busy looking in Rocket’s direction, the three animals miss this until it’s a second too late. He scurries, everyone panics, Rocket reaches back for his gun.

“Rocket,” the hamster yells from under the hood of the car. He must of crawling in through the grill or wheel well. “How fairs my favourite little traitor?”

Not promising.

“Rise my minions!” The car booms. A pair of rats and a handful of cockroaches who had been hustling along the side walk from Thanos’s house immediately, well, rise. By about five feet.

Rocket immediately lunges under the car for shelter as horse-sizes cockroaches come pelting down towards them. This feels like a Bucky problem.

The other dog transformed into a hulking wolf and the cat becomes a ten foot tall woman with a penchant for hurling swords through the air. She pretty much jumps on the back of a rat and _rides_ it.

Bucky, bless his soul, took to the ginormous battle as a simple dog. That promptly got knocked out of him when a cockroach nearly ate him. Rocket could just see the moment his friends said _fuck it._

This moment coincided with a pained shout from his fellow dog-wolf-monster-thing.

Bucky grew into a similarly sized giant black wolf and quickly started dispatching the collection of household pests (Rocket not included).

As he hunched under the car as all good tactical support should, Rocket noticed from the corner of his eyes something making its way out of the wheel-well. He reached forward and snatched them up before they even had time to turn around.

“Well, well, well,” he licked his fangs, squeezing Thanos in his palm. “What do we have here?”

Rocket’s delightful impromptu gloating was interrupted by the harsh voice of the cat/giant lady.

“Steve! That’s the Winter Solider.”

“No it’s not. It’s Bucky.”

“Whose Bucky?”

“My friend. Why won’t these cockroaches stay _dead.”_

“ _For the love o_ \- I know he’s your friend. Your friend is the Winter Solider.”

“No he looked quite different.”

“He looks exactly like that.”

“Why don’t we just ask him then? He’s standing right here, listening to everything we say.”

There was a pause, then a new voice carefully spoke.

“What’s the best thing for me to say right now?”

-

**Two days after Halloween**

“You sure?” Eric asks again while packing all of Solider’s favourite toys into a plastic bag. Sam nods solemnly over his car keys.

“Yes. I need an actual dog, and my dog is…ah, crap at being a dog. It's for my sanity.”

Eric raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anymore. Sam’s dog _was_ quite a handful.

“Well then, he’s all yours. Congratulations.” He hands the leash over with little ceremony and accompanies the man and the newly adopted dog to their car on the curb.

“See ya around, Solider,” he bends down and ruffles the dog’s fur. The creature is giving him sad, pitiful looks, pleading not to go. “Don’t be like that,” he scoffs. “We made good friends, but it’s time you go out there and get yourself a family.”

It’s weird, but he feels like the dog understood him.

Eric stands back and waves as the car pulls away, Solider staring out the window from the back seat.

Man, he needs some human friends.

-

**Four days after Halloween**

Natasha teleports down to Steve and Bucky’s house with the normal amount of dramatics. Which is to say, none at all.

The two idiots are playing hide-and-seek in the backyard while Sam the human is out at work. It is Steve’s turn to hide, which means she can only spot Bucky. Currently the chocolate gun dog is trying to get into the space under the house.

“Bucky,” Natasha announces her presence. She’s still getting used to the name. The dog flinches and spins around.

“Natasha,” he greets back. It’s the most amicable they’ve been since Steve nearly voided her contract over simple name semantics.

“Fetch Steve would you, I have goods news.” Bucky gives her a dry looks that telegraphs the words _what do you think I’m doing?_

It seems like Bucky is struggling, so Natasha goes cat form and leaps up on the fence, determined to bask in the sun and bath herself. It is very therapeutic.

“Well hello!” Natasha nearly falls off the fence. She twists and glares down into the other yard and see the Clint man from Halloween out in his yard, watering a vegetable garden. Shit, did he over-hear anything?

Natasha decides to go over and make sure he didn’t. She will have to eat him if he did, which would be a shame. A missing persons investigation on Steve’s neighbour would definitely put him in a bad mood. She meows to get his attention.

The man _signs_ to the cat. What the? How was a cat meant to understand sign? How was a cat meant to understand English in the first place, actual. All good questions. Humans were quite stupid.

 _I’m sure that was a beautiful meow._ Clint the neighbour signs. Natasha preens under the praise. Oddly, the words feel more direction and intentional then the normal human blabber.

Natasha winds herself around his legs and feels grateful she doesn’t have to kill this man. She is on thin ice with Steve as it is.

-

**Four days after Halloween**

Steve was hiding inside their kennel. He thought it was too obvious, but the thick scent of him was enough to mask his presence. It must have felt too obvious to Bucky as well, because he never bother to check.

Every time Bucky walked past, Steve had to bite his tongue to stop from squealing with laughter. At some point Natasha arrived, but _like hell_ he was going to make this easy on Bucky and come out. Of the dog house, that is.

Steve frowns to himself. That did not help.

Half an hour later Bucky sticks his head in the kennel dog and _glares._

Steve finally lets the mad cackles free.

“Seriously Buck?” Bucky keeps the glare firmly in place. “Oh sweet Lords,” his stomach muscles hurt. “That was worse then a,” Steve has to catch his breath, “a pup!”

“Knew where you were. Just enjoying the peace and quiet,” Bucky grumbles. Steve almost rolls over.

“Oh, _for sure.”_

“Come on,” Bucky grunts. “We have a visitor.”

Natasha brings good news with her. The missing infinity stone was not missing. Thor had taken care of it on the night. Which was nice of him but he could have spared everyone a lot of panicking if he bother to _tell_ anyone.

Thanos has been found guilty by the Court, stripped of all magical capabilities and knowledge and sentenced to a fifth of a hamster's life-span cleaning bed-pans in the Our Lady Mary Hospital.

Bucky has been pardoned for his crimes committed in Hydra's service. However, Bucky will be on probation for many years. However, Steve has been approved as his promotion guardian so… it doesn’t really change anything.

He will remain on Leave alongside Steve until Steve’s years are up. When they go back to the higher realms High Lord Fury has offered to take Bucky into his guard.

High Lord Fury's lands border Natasha's, and he travels to many interesting places. He tells Bucky as much, and his friend smiles lopsidedly. Bucky always wanted to serve a High Lord. Their guards got to fight all the strange and unusual monsters.

It is all good news.

Steve smiles like an idiot for _days._ He can’t remember the last time he had such good news. It almost feels like a life-time ago he was burnt-out and painfully, secretly, filled with nothing but loneliness.

-

**Christ Mass Day**

Human friend Sam goes back to New York City for Christmas. Clint agreed to watch the dogs (" _i_ _t will be good for the kids!"_ ) and Natasha managed to wrangle in some new and improved golems curtesy of her best friend’s little brother, who specialises in that sort of stuff.

Bucky does not know how Natasha befriended Hela, the Goddess of Death. Steve dose not know either and tells him outright not the ask less he wants a very unfortunately graphic answer which likely involves murder.

Bucky and Steve were at Natasha’s for Jesus’s Feast Day. Everyone knew Steve, but no one knew Bucky. He felt like a last minute date being brought to a wedding. He’s seen those movies. He and Steve have watched those movies together, curled up on the couch as it goes gross and frosty outside.

Bucky feels himself flush a bit when he remembers what always happens to the last minute dates in the romantic movies. He glances at Steve from the corner of his eye, little paper crown on his head and festival robes across his lithe body.

As Bucky glances down the table he spots Potts, golden and glowing in her human-ish true form. Beside her Tony Stark sits, gnawing on a chicken leg and looking entirely out of place yet oddly _in place._

Bucky carefully does not choke on his ham and goes back to trying to disappear at the mile long dinner table.

When everyone is full and the table is cleared, Natasha claps her hands for their attention and gives everyone permission to go off and take a nap.

Bucky and Steve end up on a lonesome couch before a fireplace. They are alone in the room besides from a treasure trove of books and maps.

Bucky is looking at Steve, and Steve is leafing through a book, pointing out the parts of the history text that mention Bucky. _'_ Buchanan _’,_ they call him.

He couldn’t care less. He looks at Steve’s rosy cheeks and thinks he can either do this now and play it off as too much mulled wine (he has been sculling down a lot of mulled wine) or he can never do it at all.

Bucky puts a hand on the book and leans close, kissing Steve’s cheek.

Steve doesn’t stiffen, or freeze. He actually almost melts. The handsome man turns big blue eyes on him and smiles.

“Hey,” he whispers, an arm Bucky didn’t realise was around him drawing up his spine.

“Hey,” Bucky whispers back.

They kiss, soft and closed mouth before the warm fire.

He pulls back just enough to rest his head on Steve’s shoulder.

“Did we ever do that?” He asks, mocking the battle stories Steve was originally trying to tell him all about. Steve shakes his head, ruffling Bucky’s hair with the motion.

“No we never did that.” There is a pause. The fire crackles. Cold wind howls against the windows. Someone laughs down the hall. Bucky can feel Steve thinking under his cheek and finger tips.

“But I’ll tell you what,” there is an uneasy smile to his voice. Bucky wonders what the hell he’s going to say. “I definitely wanted to do that the second I saw the Winter Stray.”

Bucky can’t help the surprised barking laugh that comes from his chest.

“Oh, I see how it is. Just using me to get to him, are you?”

“Two for one, baby.” It’s a joke Steve’s been making for a while now, firstly tentative like he wasn’t sure how Bucky would take, but increasingly more cheeky and confident when it always got a laugh.

“Punk,” he draws his arms around Steve and tightens them. It feels and looks like a hug. Bucky plans to spear tackle him into the plush carpet the second Steve lets down his guard, which should be any minute now.

“Jerk.”

Steve truly doesn’t realise how right he is.

“Love ya,” he replies. It works a charm, and Bucky can feel Steve’s guard slip. It would be so easy to do it.

But he doesn’t.

"Love you too. Would kill for you, alright? So don't ever disappear on me again."

"Yeah, alright, Steve." Bucky rolls his eyes but feels a last, unnoticed, shard of glass be pulled from his heart. He feels like he can finally breathe, for the first time in a hundred years.

"Merry Christ Mass," he kisses Steve again. Because he wants to, and he _can._

-

Fin.


End file.
